


bang bang (my baby shot me down)

by perennial



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Death Fix, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, cranky marrieds, out-salting competition of a lifetime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: Having entered into a marriage of convenience with Orson Krennic, Jyn does her best to become a widow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epeolotry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolotry/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to my shipping partner in crime [epeolotry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolotry), without whom i would care much, much less about this pairing than i now do.
> 
> multiple POVs is my least favorite narrative style and i'm sure i'm not alone in this so i want to clarify that i won't be using that technique here. the action will follow both mains but jyn's is the only internal narration.
> 
> ETA: the age factor has become more of a talking point than i expected. i figured if padme could become a young politician no one (in that world) would think much of jyn marrying around the same age. however, people (in our world) have valid reasons for concern over the underage element, so i will say this much: jyn is aging up very soon and nothing skeevy will be happening between now and then, i promise.

Her palms are bleeding. The cliff is steep and the rocks are sharp, and she is climbing recklessly, but she barely feels the cuts. Her father’s words play through her mind like an echo: _marriage_ , and in the same sentence, _Krennic_.

Jyn pulls herself up over the first ridge, scraping her stomach on the jagged stone edge. The next twenty feet of rock is almost entirely vertical, requiring the careful, exact placement of hands and feet, which she performs with automatic thoughtlessness that will chill her when she remembers it later.

Ultimately it’s her choice: her father made that clear. She can say no.

 _Marriage_.

 _Krennic_.

She had—to her eternal mortification—burst into tears. “Why me?” she had asked her stunned father.

Galen had looked torn, as though trying to determine whether truth or lie would better serve to console. It was the same look on his face when her mother died.

In the end he told the truth. It had nothing to do with her personally, he said; the Commander needs a way to be in touch with the people; he is developing plans, plans for the good of all, and he wants their support. She will be a bridge.

They are glossy phrases, the words of a politician. She saw through them instantly. The Commander cannot care less about her sort, but he’ll make it seem that way if it will galvanize his public image. And the galaxy will say: _That’s the man who married the scientist’s daughter, a common girl like us, so that he could better connected to us, because he cares for our welfare_. And they will give him their backing and their resources and their fighting arms.

“How can you consider this?” she had asked her father. “How can you want this for me? A marriage of apathy with a man who doesn’t care about any of the same things we do?"

Still that torn look, and his expression was pleading. “I’m trying to take care of you. I won’t always be able to. I would give you the world if I could, and he can.”

And she had said, “Papa, he’s a machine. No one with a beating heart could do the things he's done.”

“He saved our lives, Jyn,” he reminded her.

“Only to manipulate you into working for him!”

He had reached out, taken her hand in his broad warm one. “These are dangerous people, Stardust. You never know who they’ll turn on next. This way you’ll always be safe.”

“It’s safer to be _married_ to one of them?”

She can see them in her mind, those warm grey eyes she knows so well, a tinge of hope in them as he told her, “Krennic is an old friend of mine. You might be happy.”

This would never be happening if her mother was alive—and she had told him so, flung it in his face before running out the door. Not her proudest moment.

She reaches the top, heart thudding, cold air sharp in her lungs. From here Lah’mu stretches out before her for miles: green plants and black sand and thrashing ocean. Sunset casts a golden glow over everything. This is the highest point on the planet she can reach without actually flying.

She stands at the edge and stares up at the sky. The sun tints her skin orange, then red. Up here above the world, all is fixed, patterned, hushed. The air clears her head. The stars come out.

Maybe her father is right. Maybe this is the wise path. She will be able to help her planet, help her father. Maybe such a marriage as this could become a partnership. Maybe there is a chance of happiness, once she knows the Commander better.

She looks over to the rusty bucket of a podracer parked further back from the cliff edge. Her heart lifts at the mere sight of it. It is quite literally falling apart at the seams— every month or so she and Galen have to perform maintenance on some malfunctioning part—but it works for what she needs it to do, which is to carry her through the sky. Dark or daylight, cloudy or calm, there is nothing Jyn loves more than the sky.

She’ll think of something. She always does.

She climbs into the cockpit and starts the engine. The controls in her hands are as familiar a fit as her gloves. Despite its finicky nature the racer responds at the slightest touch. She lifts off, the lights and shapes on the distant earth blurring the higher she goes. The pressure on her body increases as her speed does.

There is nothing like night flying when the skies are clear. Suspended in the darkness are cascades of stars, breathtaking in their beauty and magnitude. Outlying planets glow in the distance; the moons are full and bright above her. Flaming asteroids streak though the sky. All the firmament is alive and burning and eternal.

The racer hurtles through the air. The stars are spread out before her like a road. She feels as though the entire galaxy is bursting through her blood. Next to these immensities, is anything impossible?

0 0 0

The afternoon sky is pale, overcast, the sort that will serve them a thunderstorm tonight. The Imperial shuttle looks like another sharp, miniature mountain in the landscape.

“I’ve always hated this planet,” the man in white tells the man waiting to greet him at the end of the shuttle dock. “Which is saying something, since it’s rare that I’m grounded long enough to form a firm opinion of any place, but I’ve despised this godforsaken rock of yours since I first stepped foot on it all those years ago.”

“You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat,” says his host. “We expected you yesterday. No holdups, I hope?”

Deathtroopers file out of the shuttle before and behind the Commander. Krennic steps down and shakes Erso’s hand.

“None. We ran into a smuggler; that caused a delay.” He turns back toward the ship and indicates with a sweep of his arm the cruiser visible in the loading bay. Something in his companion’s face shifts.

Krennic adjusts his cuffs. “What is it now, Galen?”

“I recognize the insignia. The man isn’t a smuggler, he’s an honest merchant.”

“Then he should have had papers proving as much.”

“What did you do with him?”

“What I always do.”

Galen shakes his head. “It won’t go well for anyone, Orson, if you come here and immediately start killing off the locals meant to support you, just because you aren’t fond of the place.”

“It was an execution, and the consequence would have been the same for any pilot who was caught without credentials in boundary skies. I take your words to mean she has agreed?”

“‘Agreed’ is a moving target,” Galen says, and steps ahead of the Deathtroopers so that he may lead them to the house.

0 0 0

The Commander looks down the table at Jyn. He sits opposite her at the long board; where he starts and ends is difficult to distinguish through the candle flames. They have barely spoken since he entered their home. She was happy to let him and her father catch up after many years’ separation, but now Galen has left the room, ostensibly to see to the meal’s final course.

She surveys their guest warily. Her father trusts this man, despite the whispers that reach them. Her father is no idiot. But her father is not the one who has to marry him.

Krennic says, “If you have questions, now is the time to ask them.”

Jyn glances at the pair of Deathtroopers standing at attention by the door. The Commander speaks as though they aren’t even present. She says, “I’d like to understand your vision. In what sense will I be your wife?”

“In every sense. Are you thinking I’ll leave you on some lonely planet and visit you once a year? Don’t worry, you’ll be in the thick of it, on Coruscant with me. You’ll need to be visible for this union to accomplish its purpose. The broadcast to the outer planets will show you regularly moving in high society.”

“You mean a bunch of snobs.”

From the kitchen, her father says, "Jyn!"

She says, “What's in this for you?”

“I was under the impression your father had spoken to you of the mutual benefits involved.”

“Humor me.”

His words are measured, practiced. “The Emperor wants unity. A united galaxy. There has been… discord. By uniting our two stations, I can assist the Emperor in achieving his goal.”

She shows him a false smile. “All for the Emperor.”

“I consider this an opportunity. I try to be magnanimous whenever possible. Your family can speak to that.”

“My mother, unfortunately, cannot.”

“Your mother would be pleased to see her daughter drawn up into the echelon. Any mother would be proud of a daughter who would serve as a uniting force between two factions.”

“My mother would be appalled to see me embrace a role as a pawn.”

Krennic steeples his fingers and studies her. “I see. You don’t wish for this marriage.”

“I don't believe we are well-matched, in age or temperament.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“She’s nearly sixteen,” says Galen brusquely, entering with a droid at his heels.

Krennic waves a hand. “That’s hardly remarkable. I'm just thirty-four.”

“No longer in your youth,” she observes.

“No, thank the stars.”

“That much closer to your death,” she says.

Her father makes a strangled sound, but the Commander laughs.

“Our temperaments may be better suited than you think,” he tells her.

The droid serves fish casserole and refills their glasses. Jyn is fairly sure the only thing that has entered the Commander’s mouth thus far is wine.

"And what's in it for me?"

Krennic considers her over his glass. "For you? I should think that's obvious. You'll be married to _me_. I am going to be promoted soon—Rear Admiral, I expect. As my wife, every door will open for you. You will never want for anything. As I climb, I will carry you with me, and climb I shall. You will move in the highest circles, exert influence over those with power. Your name, your face—you’ll be recognizable across the galaxy. You will know all its luxuries and hospitalities. Crowds will cheer when you set foot on their planet.”

A light enters his eyes as he speaks; it looks rather green. He goes a little unfocused, but returns to himself and looks directly at her. It's hard to hold his gaze but she doesn't look away.

"I have my pick of eligible partners, of course, but I've extended this offer to you out of the great esteem in which I hold your father. Speaking as one who has, as you have pointed out, rather more years of life experience than you, I advise you to hesitate before refusing. You’ll certainly never receive another offer like this. In fact, I’m rather astonished you haven’t thanked me."

Anger has lit in her chest, burning low and red. With every word it gets hotter, until it is black and sparking. She breathes slowly—keeps the anger from flaring—makes sure her voice is unchanged when she speaks.

“I want the shipping port here on Lah’mu rebuilt. I want a pay raise for the miners, fifty percent. I know you can afford it. I want a facility built for my father—anything he specifies.”

“Jyn,” her father says quietly. It’s a warning.

She says, “We're negotiating. Aren’t we? These are my terms.” She looks at Krennic directly. “You need this more than I do.”

The Commander watches her, his face unreadable except for a small twitch at his jaw. Finally: “Agreed.”

If she says yes, the people here will be cared for. Her father will be cared for, and not left alone. If she says no, there is no telling how the Commander will retaliate.

If she says yes—

“Give me a moment to consider, please,” she says, and leaves the room.

0 0 0

“I’ve brought you something,” Krennic tells Galen, and a Deathtrooper steps forward to present him with a box of rare, expensive cigars.

“Are we celebrating? She hasn’t answered yet.”

“We’re simply smoking, Galen. Have you never enjoyed yourself just for the sake of it? Never mind, I know the answer.”

“What are you thinking, then?” He doesn’t mean the smoking.

Krennic takes his time: cuts the cigar, trims it, puffs slowly to light it. “I don’t know about this.”

“Why not? She’s smart, she’s resourceful.”

“That’s the problem.” He takes another long draw. “I don’t need an opinionated, meddling wife. All I need is a link to these people, these rock-dwelling, backwards-thinking miners you’re so sure will be a feather in my cap.”

“And they will be, certainly. So long as you keep your promises.”

The Commander studies the fire and breathes out a slow line of smoke. “It’s convenient that she’s pretty, it will help to make her popular. I’m pleased you didn’t lie about that. Not quite so beautiful as a proud father would make her out to be, but no chore to look at, thankfully.”

“And she’ll grow into a lovely woman; she’s the picture of her mother at the same age.”

“I wasn’t fond of Lyra. Fifteen is young,” he observes.

“She’s still a bit wild. That’s due to her mother gone, I expect, and running free all over this planet like she’s queen. She’ll mellow.”

Krennic glances at him. “To parrot someone’s favorite phrase: what’s in this for you, Galen?”

Galen looks at his hands, then makes a frustrated motion with his head. “This is no place for a mind like hers. She can do good things for the galaxy, but she’s stuck here with me. I want her to find her niche. I want her to have all the things I could never give Lyra.”

“It will take some work, you realize.” Krennic says sourly, “You’ve turned her into a farmer.”

“She’s a quick learner.” Galen concedes, “She likes the moors. She’s not used to cities. It’s been a long time.”

“With any luck, when she sees the villa in Theed she’ll be content to live there indefinitely. If she’s not, well—that will be unfortunate. Let’s hope a few children will appease her.”

Galen says, low and serious: “Orson, you will not forget she is my daughter.”

“Rest easy, Galen. I won't force myself on her.”

Galen holds his own cigar, untrimmed and unlit. “You keep changing your tune. If she does not fit your requirements, tell us so and be done.”

“My friend, my friend! I made my offer; I won’t rescind it. More wine?”

But Galen turns around, looking for the source of a noise from the doorway. The Commander follows his gaze. Jyn is standing there, framed by Krennic’s guards, the edges of her face lit by the firelight.

She says, “I accept.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the hearts of the strongest stars](https://youtu.be/7odYSkYKBLw) [are made of kyber](https://youtu.be/wQXit0vly2I)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are AMAZING. your enthusiasm over chp 1 has me completely overwhelmed. thank you for the flood of encouragement! and rest assured that i'm typing my fingers off trying to get as much of this posted as quickly as i can.

Her wedding hanfu is red. Not quite ruby, not quite blood. It's a sharper shade, something that doesn't rest easy on the eyes.

Jyn stands at the dock rail, waiting to board the glider that will carry her to the ceremony. She is bareheaded if one doesn’t count dozens of hairpins; her hanfu is all billowing red and cream, belted at the waist. According to Krennic, hers is a dress that even money cannot always buy: the filmy overlayer is made of the woven fibers of black roses grown on twin moons orbiting a black hole, whose stalks are the same unique shade; the cream underlayer is made of silk produced by silkworms that inhabit a single cave on a distant asteroid; thus, acquiring such fabrics generally requires an expedition to the sites mentioned—or the right connections. She had remarked that he knows her dress better than he knows her, to which he had replied, “Nonsense. I know that you haven’t the slightest notion of the value of what you’re wearing,” and left her fuming.

The sky above is brilliant blue. The sun on her face is comfortably warm. The speeders and racers of Coruscant are out in droves, peppering the sky like streaks of birds; far below, the lower levels of the city are in shadow. Despite the height of the buildings around them, the day is breezy, a factor that Jyn welcomes if only because it has the droids in a tizzy. They fuss over her windblown dress and wind-loosened strands of hair. It feels a little less like her own wedding day if she’s glad for the mishaps. It feels less like she’s walking into a trap.

She steps onto the glider, assisted by the arm of her father.

Jutting out like an arm from one of the mile-high skyscrapers is a structure that she thinks must have once been a heli-pad but has been transformed into an event space: there are rows of seats in stadium arrangement on one side, looking down on a gigantic red gazebo. Every seat is filled.

Thousands of flowers release petals into the air; gauzy fabrics shot through with gold adorn the gazebo poles. The whole scene would be rather lovely, if not for the massive banner hanging above it: their betrothal photograph, advertising them to all passerby. It is the same image that has been broadcast across the galaxy for the past month.

Jyn can see the Commander’s glider approaching the gazebo from the opposite direction. He was the one who chose Coruscant for their wedding site. It would be easier for their most elite guests to attend a wedding in a central location, he said. She has been in the city for a week, and she hasn’t decided which she hates more: Coruscant, with its neverending walls and waves of crowds and lights glaring at all times of night, or her husband-to-be.

She can see the square set of his shoulders. She can see his cape caught in the wind, twisting under the sun, changing from white to gray in quick succession.

“Breathe,” Galen whispers in her ear, and all the air rushes out of her lungs.

The glider docks. She scans the crowd but doesn’t recognize a single face.

Her father kisses her cheek. She looks up into the eyes she knows better than her own and finds them warm and steady.

A droid says, “Your seat, sir,” and he follows.

_Breathe._

The Commander walks to the center of the gazebo where the Pontifex waits, pacing himself with her steps. His eyes flick to the audience, trying to make out who is in attendance. His guard files silently into place around the perimeter of the gazebo. She looks at him, so handsome, so haughty, and a feels a rush of anguish – _I wanted to marry a man I loved, who loved me, a kind man, an honest man, a man with warm eyes._

She looks at him: pomade has darkened his sandy hair, but tell-tale blond threads through his eyebrows and tips his lashes. Though he is not as tall as her father, the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder. His eyes are ice blue.

 _It will be over soon,_ she reminds herself, and is not comforted.

She hardly hears a word of the ceremony. And then they have come to the vows, and it’s really happening.

_Don’t let him notice your hands shaking. Make your hands stop shaking. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

“Do you have the knife?” says the Pontifex. Her father steps forward and hands the groom a tiny golden blade half as long as her index finger.

Krennic grazes the edge carefully down her palm, just deep enough to draw blood. When he is finished he hands the knife to her and she does the same to him. It is an odd sensation: holding his unfamiliar hand in her palm, gently slicing it open with her other hand.

“Clasp hands,” the Pontifex directs them. They hold each other’s bleeding hand so that the cuts align. “Do you, Jyn Erso, before these witnesses, take Orson Callan Krennic to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Suddenly her heart is racing. Can she do this? She is only fifteen. Is she brave enough? Is she capable enough?

She looks up at Krennic, into his chilling blue eyes that have seen and overseen unfathomable death and devastation. Her racing heart steadies.

She says, “I do.”

0 0 0

The wedding supper is scheduled to start at dusk. The wedding party waits for sunset in Krennic’s penthouse, which is where Jyn and her father have stayed while in Coruscant. The house on Lah’mu could fit inside this one eight times, or so Galen calculated on their first day in the city.

Three figures are in the formal salon. The bride is seated on a chaise – gingerly, so as not to crush the fabric of her dress. Krennic stands across the room, reviewing a list presented to him by a droid.

“Baron Danthe, General Sloane,” he says with satisfaction. “I’m sure you never dreamed you would have them in attendance at your wedding.”

Jyn, who is counting the crystals in the chandelier above her head, says, “Now that you mention it, I was hoping for a Queen. Ah, well. Maybe next time.”

He deigns to cast a single look at her, then returns his attention to the droid. “Make sure Governor Tarkin is seated far from me. And get me the numbers on the ceremony broadcast.”

“Sir,” it says, and leaves the room.

He goes to a mirror and begins to make minor, invisible adjustments: straightening his collar, smoothing down his hair. “Everything is working out exactly as I planned. The bridge element looks promising—the lower classes are responding positively to the idea of a cross-society marriage. The Core worlds have embraced the romance of my benevolence in marrying someone of your status, so integrating you into my social circles should be seamless; thankfully you already have a Core accent, so they should have no trouble forgetting you weren’t raised here. All of this has been far less painful than I thought it would be," he says, "literally and figuratively." He indicates his cloth-wrapped hand.

Jyn, still looking upward, says, “Congratulations. What a triumph. How fortunate that you managed to marry the daughter of a pacifist farmer from Lah’mu.”

He ignores her tone. “I expected to marry up, certainly. But this has a much wider reach. My contemporaries have yet to comprehend the foresight of such a move—which is why I’m about to become Rear Admiral and they are still pushing paper in some tower here in the City. I’m quite pleased with my decision, though it’s beneath the standard. High-society marriages are commonplace, but this has garnered the attention of the galaxy. My actions are being lauded from every corner. The Emperor asked for unity; far be it from me to deny him something so easily procured! It’s the first step toward Grand Admiral.”

She tips her head toward him. “That’s all you care about, is it? Influence and glory.”

He chuckles at the mirror. “Oh, I’d prefer wealth and power, like any sensible man—but beggars can’t be choosers.” Then he turns serious: “I will do whatever is necessary to get the job done. Do I need to remind you of your duty today?”

His face is impassive, but his eyes are hard: this is no time to smart off, or to fail to uphold her side of the bargain. As soon as the betrothal contracts were signed, she had been given a thorough education as to her political position and the work required of her in that regard. Hers will be no sleeping role—at least, not until he decides to pack her up and ship her to Theed.

“I remember.” She watches him polish his rank badge. “Tell me: you ascend to the top, and you're there, and then you die; what’s the point? You’ve spent your whole life reaching for the next rung, for what?”

“I am creating a better galaxy.” He glances at her. “So are you, now.”

“A better galaxy for _you_.”

“It could hardly be considered a better galaxy if it’s to my detriment, could it? Ah, finally!”—This to the droid who has entered the room with a datapad. Krennic abandons his reflection and strides over to it.

The datapad contains the ratings data for the wedding broadcast, displayed today on every public screen in Coruscant and available for viewing across the galaxy. According to the display, numbers peaked during the moment he kissed her hand to cement their marital bond. The datapad keeps refreshing to show higher numbers, which means viewers are now replaying specific segments.

Jyn says, “I’m going to freshen up before supper.”

Krennic is absorbed by the screen, now showing statistics broken down by planet system. “Fine, fine,” he says absently.

She leaves the room. He continues reading, looking up only when another droid enters a few minutes later. It is carrying a silver dish piled high with jerky and flatbread.

“What in the seven hells is that?”

“Food for Lady Krennic,” says the droid. “She says the banquet food will be too rich and requested this be brought to her chamber.”

“I see. Carry on.” It continues on its course. “This comes from marrying a farmer,” he mutters, and resumes his study of the ratings.

0 0 0

She decides to keep her wedding hanfu. It might be useful if she ever happens upon the body of a woman her height and weight and hair color.

She has already weeded through the garments Krennic ordered for a fortnight of Coruscant parties. There is little among them that won’t make her stick out like a sore thumb, but she found some everyday trousers and plain shirts and a jacket there as well, all fitted to perfection and of much higher quality than her homespun garb. He must have guessed she would default to everyday wear and had replacements made. One set goes in her sack alongside the hanfu. The other she puts on, along with the crystal pendant that was her mother’s.

A droid arrives with food and she wraps it in one of the silk shawls. A few other necessities, carefully chosen from the house on Lah’mu, go into the pack as well. And with that she is ready.

Whatever happens to her, her father and the miners will be cared for; their bargain is public knowledge, so the Commander can't go back on his word. She has recorded her own transmission and set the broadcast droids to air it when chaos hits, so that he can’t claim she was abducted. A droid will carry a secure message to her father. She desperately hopes she has not missed anything. Checking and rechecking details has caused her many a sleepless night.

Her wedding gift from Krennic is a speedy little cruiser, a replacement for the death trap she is so fond of flying at home. Jyn suspects he would not have been sorry to see the latter carry her down in flames; but first she needed to stay alive long enough to become a bridge. She has wondered more than once if he plans to have her assassinated, somewhere down the road.

0 0 0

_(If she says yes—she can deal Krennic a hand of sweet revenge for his condescension, and deliver a strike at the knees on behalf of the multitudes who can no longer strike back: galaxy-wide humiliations galore for a man whose rank depends so much on public perception.)_

0 0 0

When they review the security footage later, they struggle to pinpoint how she managed it. She left in the cruiser: they know that because it is missing. It was not an abduction: they know that from her flippant exit broadcast. All they are able to tell a furious Krennic, who had suddenly found himself the solo host of a wedding supper for hundreds of high-ranking guests, is that somehow she has managed to slip out beneath the notice of her droid attendants, the Deathtroopers, the hordes of guests, the flight tower, her father, her new husband, and the entire city, most of whom would recognize her on sight.

It is Krennic who thinks to check the waste system cameras. He follows her step by step as her disguised figure slips into her room’s rubbish chute, crawls through seven levels of shafts that deposit her in a deserted corridor near the ship dock, slips out the window and climbs up a drainpipe the same color as her shirt, darts through the shadows of the roof until she is directly above the cruiser, braces herself, vaults neatly over the side—

—and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [are we planning](https://youtu.be/e6cu7vF6oiA) [the same sort](https://youtu.be/PTm4F7D8SwI) [of crime?](https://youtu.be/EVsl4MEviCQ?t=18s)  
>  +[say yes to the dress](https://camillamitchell.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/free-p-p-costume-tang-suit-hanfu-datang-font-b-train-b-font-clothes-font-b.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

The trees on this planet are the tallest she’s ever seen. They stretch upward like skeletal fingers pointing to the sky. Jyn scans the space above the canopy, searching for a spot in the blue that will indicate her contact is approaching.

Finding nothing there, she drops her gaze back to the busy canyon below. Her perch is an ancient plane cockpit, rusted out and grounded, settled on a hillside overlooking a mining town. The limestone cliffs cut off into a thunderous river. The mining town used to be a safe locale but the Empire’s presence here has heightened significantly since her last visit. She’s going to have to change drop sites. Again.

A shaft of sun falls through the unglazed cockpit window. She plays with her mother’s crystal, throwing light across the wall. The memories she has been skirting wait patiently; they will stay with her all day, until she faces them head on. Today is—as close as she can guess—the eighth anniversary of her father’s death.

She wouldn't realize for years that Galen knew he was going to die. That the affectionate hand he would drop on her head and the fond remarks he would make at any odd hour were all a thousand goodbyes. That he knew he was a marked man.

She should have read between the lines – _I won’t always be able to care for you. These are dangerous people._ She should have brought him with her.

He couldn't have known he was one of the walking dead, though. He must have thought he had more time. Otherwise he would have prepared her, would have given her an endless litany of advice, stowed money in distant stashes, made sure she could cope with her grief.

She remembers—

—flying home to Lah’mu. Staying hidden in a shelter her father had built years before, not emerging for a full week so that there was no chance of exposing herself to the searchers who would assuredly follow. Later finding a busted lock and bootprints all through the house. Patrolling the skies at night, celebrating her birthday with stale foodstuff. Waiting for days—waiting for weeks. Galen would know where to find her. She never doubted he would come.

—watching their arrival from the rocky cliffside beyond the house: a contingent of Stormtroopers surrounding her father. Dozens of soldiers searching the farm and the beach and the cliffs; they never came close to where she was concealed. White helmets, not the shining black to which she had grown accustomed during the weeks leading to her wedding. There was no sign of Krennic. This was something else: something ordered by the other dangerous people, though there was no telling who was behind it or why. Her father never set foot in his home; they walked him off the shuttle straight into the research facility Krennic had built for him. After a few hours they marched him back out. They set grenades and blew up the building and the house. Then they flew away, and try as she might, she could not catch up.

—leaving Lah’mu. Never returning.

—trading the cream silk and her wedding-gift cruiser to a pawn shop that paid out a fortune for both. She could have bought any number of interstellar aircraft but she opted for a cargo ship, the first step into eight years of crime. The red hanfu overlayer is still balled up at the bottom of her knapsack: insurance.

—searching for her father, the growing panic when she realized there was no record that he had ever existed. The Empire had wiped his name from every record she could find or hack into. She never discovered what they did to him or why. It took her two full years to accept the fact that he was dead.

A rap on the outer plane shell jolts her out of her reminiscences. Her stomach clenches. Half a dozen Stormtroopers stand outside the cockpit, looking in.

“Identification cards, please,” says a muffled voice.

“Is there a problem?” she answers smoothly.

“Routine check.”

Her stomach unclenches. Just a patrol pretending they have weight to throw around. Jyn pulls the requested items out of her vest pocket and hands them over. She drapes her arm over her seatback and waits, discretely studying the rest of the group.

“Tanith Pontha,” the captain reads. He flips through her papers and hands them back to her. “Looks like everything is in order. This your ride? Need some help getting her off the ground?”

They all laugh. Jyn laughs with them, mentally rolling her eyes. Her freighter is carefully hidden in the woods a mile away.

“We found a freighter back there. Full of giant turtle shells. That yours too?”

She freezes.

The blaster is pointed between her eyes before her fighting instincts even kick in. “Yeah, we’re going to need you to come with us.”

0 0 0

“There cannot be anything more boring than watching incompetent bucketheads try to do their jobs,” Jyn tells the sky.

“Shut up over there. Don’t make me warn you again.”

Her wrists and ankles are handcuffed with her wrist cuffs locked above her head to a tall fencepost. Someone chained here before her thoughtfully left behind an overturned bucket, so now she is sitting on that while taunting her captors.

Her back is to the main thoroughfare. The mining town is a dusty, busy place; its buildings tend to look like they are on the verge of collapse. The imperial base of operations is a small, unimpressive, open-air situation; a canvas stretched from some poles and a tree limb provides shade. They appear to have one operations console. Their living quarters are on their ships, she knows from her hours of observation. Resources to lone imperial bases on backwater planets must be limited.

“I’ve _told_ you. I’m Tanith Pontha, an honest merchant delivering goods to Alderaan. I stopped to refuel—”

“Yeah, yeah. We'll know who you are soon enough.”

The town is much hotter than the cool underside of the forest; despite the shade, she’s sweating in her vest and boots. The three troopers assigned to guard and identify her fare even worse; they must be broiling in their body armor. All have removed their helmets. There must not be much supervision at lone imperial bases on backwater planets.

“Scan Confirmed,” one reads from the screen. He cannot be older than eighteen. “Tanith Ponta, merchant.” He frowns.

She calls, “Excellent work, boys. Really, I applaud you.”

The second trooper says, “She’s definitely a smuggler. That must be an unflagged alias.”

The third says, “That’s just the fingerprint scan. Did you run the iris scan?”

“Obviously I was _going_ to—”

The third trooper walks over to Jyn with a miniature blaster in hand and points it at her face.

“Hang on—!”

There is a flash of purple and it’s a minute before she can see around the starbursts. When she can make out the console again, two of the troopers are arguing at the console. The third is watching the street.

The iris analysis only takes a few minutes to result. “Aha!” says the trooper running the scan. Jyn, who is still blinking purple, squints at him. She can't see the screen but she can guess what he's looking at.

“Kestrel Dawn!” he says triumphantly. “Got it! Alias Kestrel Dawn! Did you hear that, smuggler?”

“You're doing well so far!” she says encouragingly.

They frown at her and return their attention to the console. The screen provides standard stats: physical description, crimes confirmed and suspected. She listens to them mutter over the data for a while before losing interest. Eventually she falls into a doze.

She is brought back to full consciousness by the trooper who blasted her eyes strutting around. He says, “You know who you are?”

“I’m Tanith Pontha,” she tells him calmly.

“Try again.”

“Kestrel Dawn.”

“That so, Lianna Hallik?”

“Oh, very good, I did wonder if you were going to get that one.”

“Thank you,” the trooper at the console blushes. His compatriot glares at him and he subsides.

“I’ll save you some time,” she tells them. “That’s all there is. That’s all you’re going to find.”

“We’ll see about that,” says the first trooper. He tells the other to keep scanning.

“But we’ve run all the scans.”

“Cross reference them. Stars, it’s like you forgot every bit of training the moment we landed—”

They fall to arguing again.

Time passes. Jyn watches the leaf-and-sunlight patterns on the canvas. She wonders how the last detainee fared. She wonders which tool to use to bust cuffs like these. Her wrists are locked together but her ankle cuffs allow for a limited stride.

The trooper at the console says, “Hey, X. 42.” There is a new note in his voice. “Come look at this.”

Jyn raises her head.

The other two join their comrade and peer at the screen.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Wait a second—”

“That's _her_.”

0 0 0

“Sir! Director, sir!”

An ensign runs up the bridge with a printed message in hand. Heads lift briefly as he passes, then return to their joint task of keeping the starship en route to Corellia.

The white-caped figure on the bridge turns his head away from his study of the screen before him.

“This just came through, sir.”

The printout is handed over and read. The messenger is somewhat crestfallen to observe no change in the recipient’s expression.

“Well,” Krennic says, “it’s about time.”

0 0 0

Jyn clenches her jaw and stares at the ground. She’s always careful. Being careful has kept her out of more prison camps than she cares to tally. Somewhere along the line she lost track of the fact that the Empire has collected enough information on her to pin down who she really is, and she silently curses them and herself in equal measure.

A trooper says haughtily, “Director Krennic has been informed. He is on his way now. He sends you this message ahead of him.”

He holds a message printout in front of her but she doesn’t look at it; her glaring eyes don’t leave his face.

He draws his arm back to read aloud: “ _While I am disappointed to learn you are still alive, our contract still stands. Enjoy your last minutes of freedom_.”

The troopers laugh. Then they start excitedly discussing what they plan to do once they are promoted.

“We’ll probably be given our own command—our own ships!”

“I’m buying a penthouse on Coruscant, definitely.”

Jyn rolls her eyes. She scans the area around her for any fresh inspiration as to how she might escape her situation. There is nothing within reach of hands or feet.

From the street comes the sound of metal in motion and a moment later a security droid marches into the enclosure. He salutes the troopers, who stare at him in confusion. He stops where the sight of them are blocked from her sight.

“K-2SO reporting for duty to enact final sentencing upon this prisoner.” It is carrying a blaster.

She can feel something moving around her wrists. A _click_ and the lock holding her arms in place releases. She slumps down on the bucket with a sigh of relief, though she knows the pain of blood rushing back into place will follow shortly.

“Brace yourself,” says a voice in her ear.

The droid points the blaster at her feet and fires. The ankle cuffs break open. The skin around her shins hurts, probably burned, but she’ll deal with it later—now is no time to be hobbled by a mere flesh wound.

The troopers shout and pull out their own weapons. The droid starts firing at them. One blast hits the console, another sets the canvas on fire. They fire back, shots ricocheting off the droid’s metal chest; Jyn ducks her head to avoid catching an indirect blast to the head.

She has no idea who this droid is or who unlocked her arms but she’s not staying here to find out. Her wrists are still handcuffed but she’s dealt with worse. She sets her teeth.

“Wait—” says the voice, but she’s already gone.

The first thing she saw when they brought her here was a fighting baton on the table next to the console. This is her target. The droid has backed two of the troopers to the side of the station, and it’s the work of a moment to vault past the other one and grab the baton. Summoning power back to her aching arms, she swings and hits the trooper’s exposed skull. He falls to his knees and she delivers a blow to the back of his neck. He crumples to the ground in a heap—still breathing, but no threat.

She can hear a trooper issuing a call for backup. A blast is fired and the call cuts off.

The weaponless third trooper tries to run past her, but she brings the baton around to take him out by the knee. The full effect of the stroke is deflected by his armor, however, and though he stumbles he does not fall. He recovers and turns on her before she has time to brace herself. A punch to the stomach throws her back against the console. Her confined arms make her more unbalanced and the time it takes her to find her footing only permits her to block the next blow. She needs to take the offensive, but the trooper drives her back with kicks and punches.

She slams headfirst against the fence and somehow manages to keep her grip on the baton.

A voice says, “Need some help?”

She looks up at the face of the voice that helped her: an unassuming-looking man with sandy hair, wearing a pilot’s uniform and looking down at her from the other side of the fence. There are more figures behind him: the droid, a monk, and a hulking man with long hair and a grizzled beard.

“No,” she snaps.

The speaker steps back, hands up, and the group shifts into at-ease stances to watch her fight. She staggers to her feet, adjusting her grip on the baton. The trooper has taken advantage of the brief reprieve to get his hand on his fallen comrade’s blaster. He aims it at her.

He’s made the mistake of standing within reach. She swings the baton with enough force to knock the blaster out of his hands, then goes for his neck, his stomach, his head. Finally he is on the ground, bloody and groaning. From the lolling of his head he is rapidly losing consciousness.

Something flutters across the ground by her feet: Krennic’s message. She grabs it and balls it up, then stuffs it in the trooper’s mouth. “In case he wonders what happened here,” she mutters to deaf ears.

From down the road: footsteps, a multitude of them, all in tandem. A contingent of white-armored bodies rounds the corner at the far end of the street, all running toward the station. There are at least fifteen of them.

Her group of observers looks at her.

She says, “Alright, jump in if you must!”

The monk and grizzled man are a fighting team to be reckoned with; the first wave of troopers to hit them falls to the ground and doesn’t rise again. The pilot isn’t bad with a blaster and the robot is generally a dead shot—it must have alignment radar as part of its vision settings. Jyn is busy with her baton, striking any body part she can hit.

The world is a blur, all white armor and red blasters, and she ducks and dodges her way around buildings behind the others. She doesn’t know the layout of this town as well as they evidently do, so she’s willing to follow their lead.

Finally all the soldiers are motionless on the ground. The group of fighters ducks behind a smithy for a breather.

Jyn leans against a wall. “Thanks,” she pants. “Who are you?”

“Not here,” says the pilot. His badges indicate he is a general. “We’ll explain on the way.”

“On the way to what?”

“To our base.”

She draws back. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, you can’t stay here.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s in it for me.”

“Safety. Collaborators.”

“A bath,” says the droid.

She smiles thinly. “Thanks but no thanks. I've got a freighter back there full of paua turtle shells and a tardy buyer. I appreciate the help—certainly couldn’t have done it without you—but from here I think it’s best you go your way and I go mine.”

“You sure about that?” the pilot says, looking past her.

She turns around.

Stormtroopers—and no backup contingent this time. They are everywhere she looks, flooding in from both ends of the street. There are too many of them to count but there is no question her group is outnumbered.

Jyn scans the area for a building that might serve as a shelter from where to fight. She wishes she had picked up a few extra blasters from the bodies they left behind.

“This way!” shouts the pilot. He grabs her upper arm and hauls her into the building across the road. The five of them plunge through a doorway and sprint up a circular staircase that deposits them on a roof. Parked squarely in the middle of it is a star cruiser.

“In, in, _in!_ ” he shouts, and they stumble through the door. It slides closed behind them. The pilot hurls himself into the cockpit, hands flying across the controls. Jyn, still sprawled across the floor in the heap of fellow fighters, feels the engines stir beneath her.

She crawls to a window and looks out. They lift off right as a mass of Stormtroopers spill out onto the roof. The streets around the building are full of white helmets. She can see red blaster flashes but they are out of range.

The ship ascends until the whole town is visible. They pick up speed. Jyn stares, forlorn, at the green canopy below that conceals her freighter, all her worldly goods, and 25,000 credits worth of giant paua tortoise shells. From here she can make out the hillside where the drop meetup should have happened, where, if her buyer hadn’t been late, she would never have encountered a single stormtrooper or the odd bunch currently whisking her away to who knows where.

And then—her jaw drops. Two figures stand by the rusted out plane: a Wookiee looking into the cockpit and a tall, dark-haired man. As she watches, the man throws his arms out in annoyance.

If they find her freighter and don’t leave payment, she’ll hunt them into the next galaxy.

For now, she had better find out where she’s headed presently. She makes her way to the cockpit and crouches behind the pilot’s seat.

“Merrick,” he says, reaching around to offer her his hand. She shakes it.

“Nice to meet you.”

When she doesn’t give up her name, he raises an eyebrow. “Going to reciprocate?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“You don’t have to say, Jyn Krennic,” he says, and plunges them into lightspeed.

0 0 0

She doesn’t know the planet, but the base is—unexpectedly—inside a huge abandoned Massassi temple. They’ve even built a hangar on the ground floor.

Her handcuffs are removed by a construction droid working near the hangar mouth. Merrick is studiously deaf to her questions as he walks her through the maze of temple corridors. In a room deep within the base she faces a row of strangers.

“Hello, Jyn,” says a red-haired woman in flowing white. “Please have a seat.”

Jyn takes the chair indicated. “What is this place? Who are you people?”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll wait to tell you that until we are sure you can be trusted.”

Jyn crosses her arms. “That’s a double standard if I ever heard one.”

It’s either an interview or an interrogation. They ask her a question after question about where she has been and what she has been doing, all of which she refuses to answer, and after a while they seem to give up. The only thing she gives them is her name, Jyn _Erso_ , with an assurance of what will happen to those who call her otherwise.

She cannot fathom why she is here. Time to turn the tables. She looks at the woman sitting across from her, who emanates calm and surety with her every word or movement.

“I know who _you_ are, senator. There’s a bounty out for you.”

Mon Mothma smiles slightly and says, “Likewise.”

Jyn lifts her chin. “Why did you help me?” She tried to get this answer from Merrick, but all he would say was that he was following orders.

“We intercepted the transmission sent from the Imperial base notifying Director Krennic as to your location. Suspecting you had no desire to remain in Imperial custody, we staged a rescue. I am told that you were receptive to assistance.” She looks at someone across the way, and Jyn sees that Merrick is still in the room, standing against a wall to her left.

“What are you, some kind of super-secret anti-Empire spy ring?”

Mon Mothma steeples her fingers. “We are the Alliance to Restore the Republic. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”

“Of course I’ve heard of you. You’re the fanatics who want to overthrow the Emperor.” Jyn looks around the room. “It’s never going to work.”

One of the men on the panel, an admiral, says angrily, “You accept a life of oppression under imperial tyrants?”

“I have no love for the Empire,” she shoots back. “But I’ll take it over an endless string of coups and wars and chaos. At least this way we have a measure of stability.”

Mon Mothma says, “But you agree: the Empire is oppressive and corrupt, and if a better replacement can be installed, it should be.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t make such statements aloud.”

“We’d like you to join us, Jyn.”

A muffled sound of protest greets these words. Jyn’s eyes slide around the room. Evidently not everyone is as keen to extend the hand of welcome as Mon Mothma. She says, “What makes you think I have any interest in what you do?”

The senator glances across the room—at whom, Jyn cannot see. “Your marriage was fairly infamous. The aftermath, rather.”

Ah. There it is. They want information. Well, she can’t provide it.

“We thought, when you left him in the manner you did, that you might secretly be our ally; but then we couldn’t find you.”

Jyn smirks.

“When we intercepted that transmission, we were hopeful. We _are_ hopeful. You could be a valuable asset to our cause.”

“Sorry. Not interested.” She stands and salutes them carelessly. “Thanks for getting me out from between a rock and a hard place. I won’t forget it.” She starts walking toward the door, her back to the panel.

The senator says, “We have resources, Jyn. Spies. We might be able to get you information you might otherwise never have access to.”

She pauses. Her heart is briefly at war—and then it settles. She has put this grief to bed. These are questions she stopped asking long ago.

She asks, low: “Do you know what happened to my father?”

“No.”

Jyn sighs, long and slow, then shakes her head and resumes walking.

“But someone does. Someone out there knows.”

“Then I hope it gives them nightmares.”

Mon Mothma speaks louder, her voice ringing out through the room. “This fight is in your blood, Jyn Erso.”

She stops again. Breathes out, in. Says, “My father was a pacifist.”

“We both know I’m not referring to your father.”

Jyn clenches her jaw so hard it aches.

“She raised you to fight back against any evil you encountered. And you _did_. Your wedding day, you did that.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It’s still there; it’s still in you. It always will be.”

Jyn’s hands are in fists. She can feel her mother’s crystal pendant where it rests under her shirt, warm against her skin. She thinks of eight lonely years spent swearing she would never again get close enough to anyone to care whether they were here or gone. She remembers the day her mother died. The room waits.

She turns around and walks back to her chair. She sits and looks at the panel. “Agreed. But first I want to go back to pick up my freighter, or you lot owe me 25,000 credits.”

A man stands abruptly. Jyn recognizes Bail Organa of Alderaan.

He says, “Senator, I must protest! This woman cannot be allowed to join our forces. Stars, we’ve all read her dossier! Everything we know about her is one black mark after another. Theft, smuggling, forgery, assault—there isn’t an honest bone in her body! She’s said herself she doesn’t care about our cause. How can we be sure she won’t turn us in for twenty credits? Not to mention, stubborn, belligerent since she walked through that door, the last thing we need is a soldier who won’t follow orders!”

“Well, Jyn?” says Mon Mothma. “You can speak for yourself. Why should we let you join us?” She sounds amused.

Jyn crosses her arms. “This is a rebellion, isn’t it?” She raises her brows. “I rebel.”

Organa looks disgusted, but many in the room laugh.

They end up putting it to a vote. It isn’t unanimous, but they let her in. She meets Organa’s eyes as they stand to leave the room. His are disapproving.

“I won’t let you down,” she tells him. She is surprised to find she means it.

“Welcome to the Alliance,” he sighs.

The admiral tells her, “Training starts tomorrow. Report to the hangar.”

“I was promised a bath,” she says pointedly.

“General Merrick?” says Mon Mothma. “Will you see to it that Sergeant Erso is assigned sleeping quarters? And show her around the base.” She gives Jyn one of her warm smiles. “We’re very glad to have you with us.”

0 0 0

The first people Merrick introduces her to are, unsurprisingly, the pilots. As a group they are far more welcoming than the reception she received in what she has mentally dubbed the interrogation room. Most don’t bat an eyelash upon learning who she is—they have acquired quite a few upper-level defectors, Merrick tells her, so there is little celebrity to be had—but some are enthusiastic.

“Wedge Antilles,” Merrick introduces her to a pair of legs sticking out from under a plane underbelly. “Wedge, come out here and meet the lady.” The other pilot rolls out and offers her an oil-covered glove. She shakes a finger gingerly. “This is Jyn Erso, new recruit.”

Wedge’s eyes brighten. “You’re the one who threw over Director Dipshit! Absolute mortification! Beautiful work. It took him ages to recover from that one.” He hails someone in the distance. “Oi, Cassian! Here’s the lass who left Krennic at the altar!”

“After the altar,” Jyn says, watching the captain approach, “if we’re striving for accuracy.”

Merrick tells her, “Captain Andor’s team were the others with me today. He wasn’t on base when we got the call, so I filled in. How do, Cassian! New recruit.”

“Yes, I was just told.” Cassian Andor holds out a hand to shake hers in a warm, firm grip. “Welcome to the Alliance,” he says. “You’ll be working with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [spelled just like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XIRj_Iq3cw) [the word escape](https://youtu.be/khIwb56Y8OE?list=PLe-nCwEQ55dqVFBxsNVF7cCcxOp4hSpKR)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well!!!!!! HI EVERYONE. i have a few things to tell you but the most important is: i really love y’all. okay? you’re the best. you are so patient and enthusiastic and supportive. i have such gobs of affection for you it’s ridiculous. 
> 
> so. this chapter was well on its way to being a massive update because the name of the game is P R O G R E S S I O N but i finally came to terms with the fact that 20k+ is A B S U R D and here we are instead. as i watched this monster chapter move from the planned 5k into the realm of TWENTY THOUSAND WORDS i just kept thinking: ‘this is a disaster. it’s never going to end. i am so tired’ which eventually turned into ‘GET REKT, FIC’ and then i had to focus on real life for quite a while but my time is finally my own again and now WE’RE BACK. thanks @everyone for being so wonderfully patient. the good news is that the next update (which i really think of as this chp’s Part B) should be up pretty quickly. sorry for the wait but if i did my job right you’ll understand why.

There is no such thing as night on a Star Destroyer, but there is an interlude of a few hours during which the ship goes quiet. Those tasks that do not require immediate or constant attention are abandoned until the so-called morning bells; a droid crew keeps the ship functioning.

The Director stalks through dim, empty corridors. Two guards in shining black follow at a distance. He stops in one of the peripheral galleys, one with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the galaxy. Stars and planets and moons fill his vision. He grips the handrail mounted on the glass so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Footsteps on metal. The head of Interstellar Intelligence appears at the end of the corridor and stops at a respectful distance.

"Update."

"Sir. No information regarding the location of your wife. No leads regarding the identity of those who assisted in her escape."

Krennic snarls, "Does Intelligence do anything but play sabacc all day?"

"Sir?"

"This is high priority. I want answers!"

"Yes sir."

He continues pacing through the ship until the galley lights brighten slightly, indicating six bells. He never speaks. He doesn't have to; all who see him give him a wide berth. As figures of the crew slowly repopulate the control boards and bridge stations, word travels quickly: stay out of the path of the Director.

0 0 0

Had anyone asked her, Jyn would have pegged the rebel leaders as too high and mighty to perform menial tasks like laundry, but when she goes to fetch a few sets of clothes from the linen room that is more akin to a chapel than a storage space, she finds Mon Mothma hanging just-washed robes to dry.

“Sergeant Erso,” the senator greets her warmly. “How are you adjusting?”

“I’m getting used to it. Taking a bit.”

“As is to be expected. Am I in your way?”

“Just collecting,” Jyn says, holding up a shirt. The senator smiles in understanding and resumes her chore.

The seconds tick by. Jyn swallows. She needs to say it before the silence becomes awkward. She blurts: “Did you know my mother? It’s only—it sounded like you might have, from what you said when I arrived.”

“Only by reputation, I’m afraid. We researched you quite thoroughly when your engagement was announced.”

“Oh.”

“The records are stored somewhere in the temple archives. We weren’t able to find nearly as much information about her as we did about your father, unfortunately.”

“I see. Well. Nice talking to you,” she says distantly. “I have to get to the mess hall. If I can find it.”

“That way,” Mon Mothma points, “to the left, one level down. The stairwell is just past the turnoff to the archives.”

“Right.” Jyn marches away down the corridor without another word.

She doesn’t appear for two meals in a row, and when she finally shows her face at breakfast her eyes are red-rimmed and her face is tired and drawn, but the look she gives Mon Mothma is pure gratitude.

0 0 0

The Director scans the reports. "All good news," he notes to the Deathtroopers, whose years of service mean they know when to listen and when to speak. They stand silent as he continues. "Construction is nearly complete, that's cause for celebration. Years of building finally coming to a close. Soon enough there will be enough kyber stockpiled to do a real test. We have a busy month ahead. Inspecting the build site, inspecting the weapon prototype… I'll need to stop by the research station, I suppose. Ah, it's a good feeling, isn't it! Everything is progressing as planned. That ought to get Tarkin off my back for a while."

One of the troopers asks a question.

Rebels? Krennic waves a dismissive hand. He has more important things to worry about than a ragtag group of dissidents. He wishes them well, in fact. They had better enjoy themselves while they still can.

0 0 0

Sometimes Jyn thinks she could live off adrenaline. It's more satisfying than food and sleep and the sky combined.

She bursts with energy when she wakes, eager to get out into the field, eager for the rush. It feels like electricity sparking in her blood. It feels like watching glass shatter, it feels like she's hurtling off a clifftop, it feels like falling down a bottomless hole. She loves the moment the rush overwhelms the panic, steadying her, all her fear swept away before the flood.

She lights a fuse and scrambles to the next one in a long line. From the window of the cruiser Baze calls, "Better hustle, little sister."

Her team waits at the top of a grassy crater's edge. On the other side of the crater, perhaps a mile off, she can see white smoke rising. Each fuse trails out of a hole burrowing deep into the earth, pockmarking the ground around her.

The first explosive detonates as she lights the last one. She sprints up the slope back to the cruiser, the earth beneath her feet vibrating. She hurtles inside as the ground starts to give way. The door swings up behind her and closes as they take off.

The crater crumbles and becomes a sinkhole. Of the underground facility that recently existed beneath the grassy crater bowl, painstakingly carved into the rock and dirt like an oversized ant colony, there is no sign. Of the rebel explosives, threaded with caution and patience through tunnels and corridors, there is no evidence.

Jyn tumbles into her seat. "Well?" she asks, breathless.

K-2SO says: "0.2 seconds faster than Cassian."

Jyn throws a victorious look at the captain, who is looking back at her in the mirror above the pilot's controls. He rolls his eyes but he's amused, she can tell.

The rebels have kept her busy. It didn't take her long to realize Cassian's team ranks among the elite; their assignments require a fine balance of deliberation and risk, much like their leader. They've disabled Imperial vehicles. They’ve destroyed supply routes. They've forged, stolen, and scrambled communications. They've spread messages of truth across the galaxy, relaying facts gathered and shared by a long string of spies.

Cassian looks at her over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "Ready to cause some more trouble?"

0 0 0

Jyn feints left and spins right, which allows her to strike at the opening where Baze’s neck meets his shoulder. She only lands a single hit before he’s back on the defense, but it’s a gratifying feeling all the same.

He shakes a finger at her. She backs away, grinning.

Chirrut says, “He’s not watching his left side, Jyn.”

Baze huffs at him. “No helping her. Besides, how would you know?”

“You never watch your left side.”

K-2SO tells Jyn, “At this rate, you will be four minutes and twelve seconds late to the tactics meeting if you run.”

The hangar is a multi-purpose space: aside from the housing and maintenance of the Alliance’s fleet of aircraft, it is a general labor, training, and social area. A section blocked off by crates is called the training ring, though it is little more than chalk on cement, and this is where Cassian’s team is currently gathered, sans Cassian.

“I appreciate the heads up, K. Give me a moment, I’m about to beat Baze.”

“If you are about to beat Baze it is only because he is letting you win.”

“Left side, Jyn!”

She makes contact once more (a punch Baze absorbs easily) before the droid’s reminders become an endless stream of minutes and seconds and she takes off at a run primarily to get out of range of his voice.

-

A collection of rebel fighters, most of them generals and captains, are gathered in the operations room. Attendance is light; several missions are running today. Cassian lifts a hand to indicate his location and she slides into place beside him.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “She’s not angry, is she?” Mon Mothma’s face wears a frown.

He shakes his head. “They’re talking about your husband.”

“Don’t call him—”

“Shh. Listen.”

Mon Mothma says, “All we’re sure of is that he is gathering kyber crystals. We don’t know his purpose for them.”

General Dodonna adds, “But when it comes to Krennic we know it can’t be anything good.”

“Kyber is being stripped from Jedha. Our aim is prevent any more shipments from leaving the moon.”

“That’s Saw’s domain,” puts in Merrick. “Why isn’t he handling it?”

“His forces are on the ground, but they can only do so much. He has agreed to let us to station a permanent contingent there. Everyone will serve on rotation. We won’t be working with Saw’s forces, but we will need to be in communication with them so that we don’t mistakenly attack each other on missions.”

“Shouldn’t we confirm this is really something to concern us?” Wedge says. “We’re risking a lot of lives if all this is because the Director’s got a crystal collection.”

“Right now the fact that Krennic is interested at all is enough to concern me,” says Bail Organa. “There will be an intelligence element to this mission. We hope to confirm the destination and purpose for the kyber shipments. As things stand, our priority is cutting off the flow out of the city. Captain Merrick, Captain Andor, get your teams ready: you’ll be the first group on the ground.”

-

Jedha is a busy, colorful city, and three weeks there are more than long enough for Jyn to learn the personality of both the place and people—mostly for lack of anything else to do. Her team spends most of their time trying to find local contacts with information about the Empire’s interest in kyber. Thanks to Baze and Chirrut, who once called Jedha home, they have a few names to start with, but only end up with false leads. Even discreet questions get them nowhere; no one wants to talk to outsiders.

The reigning rebel forces of Jedha are Saw Gerrera’s pack, and though Jyn never sees the man she sees more of his forces than she cares to. Whatever agreement the Alliance struck with Saw, his followers have yet to credit it. They muscle the newcomers out of any shipment rescues and refuse to share intel. The Alliance teams are left to navigate the maze of the city in growing frustration.

Restless and bored, Jyn tells Cassian: “I have an idea.”

-

“We’ve noticed strange activity from the rebels, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Unusual activity in Jedha.”

“Jedha is hardly a new source of trouble.”

“No, sir. These are new tactics, however.”

“Well, report, then.”

“Sir. There have been three attempts to access flightplans of departing Destroyers carrying kyber shipments. We have confirmed that these were not made from Empire-approved entry codes.”

“I suppose you want to tell me how it was done.”

“Sir. They managed to gain backdoor access by using old codes. Once they had a foothold in, they were able to reroute their way through the rest of the system. They accessed dates of planned departures but the firewall kept them from viewing times or routes. We have washed the system of all old codes and reinforced the firewall.”

“Were the departing ships attacked? Were they followed?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you wasting my time relaying this information?”

“It’s—it’s protocol, sir.”

“Duly noted. Resume your station. And, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“If you tell me again that rebel forces managed to hack their way in to an Imperial database without providing me with the necks of those behind it, your neck will be an adequate substitute.”

The Captain swallows. “Yes, sir.”

-

Near the end of their assignment in the city, Cassian and Merrick’s teams stumble upon a shipment escort that Saw’s forces have missed. An armed caravan makes its way through the city as the faintest hint of dawn begins to lighten the sky. The heightened guard makes the mission more dangerous, but it’s also affirming: rebel efforts have been felt. The Empire is evidently counting its losses.

The streets are quiet, which Jyn finds preferable when running this sort of mission: there is less of a chance that a stray blast might hit one of the locals. Both Alliance teams watch from behind walls and pillars. They have finally resigned themselves to the facts Saw’s forces have understood for some time: there is no way to steal back the crystals that won’t leave half of their group dead, which means the only way to keep the shipment from reaching Krennic is to destroy it.

The caravan reaches the chosen intersection and the teams jump into action. The escort guards are taken out before anyone can call for backup; the drivers soon follow suit. Bombs are set and the rebels take cover.

There is a _boom_ , a wave of heat, and a clatter of metal as the dismembered tanks start to hit the ground. The rebels planted all the explosives around the crystal crates; a thin shimmering layer of kyber dust now coats the walls of the surrounding buildings. Faces begin to appear at windows.

Jyn wishes she could see the Director’s face when he learns three tank-loads of kyber have been decimated. She wishes there was a way to tell him she was involved, so that he can even more loudly curse the day she escaped.

Inspiration strikes. She digs through her pack.

“Move out,” orders Cassian.

“I’ll catch up,” Jyn says, so of course none of them move. From the depths of her pack she pulls the outer layer of her wedding hanfu, somewhat worse for wear but unmistakably woven from the red fibers of black roses inhabiting a distant moon.

Cassian says, with uncharacteristic patience that indicates curiosity, “What are you doing?”

“Salting the wound.” She takes the cloth in both hands and rips off a strip from along the hem.

Chirrut, hearing her, asks, “What’s that?”

“Something he’ll recognize.” She hands him the dress; it flows like water through his hands.

Chirrut says, “But he’ll know you were here.”

Baze, watching her tie the ribbon to a bent and burned antenna box, tells him, “That appears to be the point.”

Jyn says, “If he thinks I’m cowering in fear in some distant galaxy, he’s wrong.”

K-2SO says, “ _We_ know that. Does _he_ have to know that?”

“Worried he’ll make me pay for it? He has to catch me first.” She stuffs the dress back into her pack.

“Worried about the rest of us, frankly. His anger doesn’t seem to discriminate between guilty parties and unwilling associates.”

“Stick it to him, Jyn. We’ll all go down in flames together,” Chirrut says cheerfully.

“Let’s go see what Merrick wants,” says Baze, hauling Jyn to her feet, and they finally turn as a unit to make their way to where an apoplectic Merrick has been shouting at them to get moving because Stormtroopers are on the way.

-

“General Tansor thought you ought to see this, sir.”

Watching the surveillance vid of the attack and explosion does nothing to dispel the Director’s mounting rage over the incident. He has already run the numbers on how the loss of three loads of kyber will disrupt his timetable; seeing the destruction with his own eyes makes bile rise in his throat.

Just as he is about to turn away, a figure darts into the frame—a woman, judging from her physique. She crouches by something on the ground, her hands busy. She looks to her right, toward the camera. The image is grainy but it’s enough to make out her features.

He says involuntarily: “I know those eyes.”

“Sir?”

“Replay that last part. “

They obey.

“ _Stop_.”

He stares at the frozen image without speaking. The techs around him look at each other uncertainly.

His lip curls. “Rebels. How original.”

“Our spies have confirmed this wasn’t Gererra’s mob, sir.”

An officer approaches. “Director Krennic, sir.” The Director turns in irritation.

“From the wreckage, sir – we found this. It was unquestionably added after the fact.” She hands him a strip of red fabric.

Krennic says, “ _Where are they?_ ”

“Gone, sir. They were seen boarding a shuttle and departing from the moon.”

His hand tightens around the torn cloth. “What were they doing? What did they want?”

An ashen-faced sergeant steps forward. “They were able to locate the delivery access code, sir. They sent their own decoy vehicles to the Destroyer loading bay… loaded with timed explosives.”

“ _And?_ ”

“And seventy-six percent of the kyber on board was destroyed, sir.” His voice fades into barely a whisper.

Krennic does not move or speak. The room watches him, paralyzed.

Moving casually, his hand moves to the holster at his hip, grips the blaster there, raises his arm to the level of his eyes, and fires three times. The ashen-faced sergeant, Intelligence captain, and a lackey all fall face-forward with holes in their foreheads.

The Director sweeps out of the room, his personal guard following in his furious wake. Those still standing breathe sighs of relief and call for cleaning droids to come mop up the blood.

0 0 0

Cassian is pale with anger. "You really think you'll be able to live with yourself?"

"I really do." Jyn stuffs a bag of supplies into the cargo bin. "Because all I really want is enough money to buy a planetoid at the farthest edge of the galaxy, where no one lives but me and no one can find it unless they already know about it and there's no one to worry about but myself. And I'm certainly not making any money here!"

"While the rest of the galaxy burns around you."

She slams the bin door shut. "Do you realize how small a chance you have of actually accomplishing anything? This little group of rebels—who rarely even agree with each other!—against the _entire Empire?_ You do realize that if they really considered the rebellion a threat, they'd wipe you out as easily as a boot crushing a glowmite, right?"

"Fine. Fine. Good riddance."

"You aren't going to stop me?"

"Either you're here or you aren't. The last thing we need is dead weight. I don't have time for you to not be completely here. So, yeah, good riddance. Best of luck on your isolation plan. Maybe you can avoid the poison flooding the galaxy for a few more years. The rest of us will be trying to do something about it."

He strides away through the maze of planes, out of sight in a matter of seconds. She scowls at the glossy painted side of the fighter.

K-2SO, who followed them from the dormitories to the hangar (like a dog, Jyn thinks; like Cassian’s pathetic shadow), still stands at the nose of the aircraft. He says: "You've begun to care about them, haven't you? That's why you're leaving."

She scowls at the droid.

"There is an 89% chance you'll come back."

"Didn't ask."

"Even I came back."

"To everyone's joy, I'm sure."

He tilts his head and considers her. "Inborn response or learned. What will win out? It's a fascinating question."

"Get away from me."

He complies without another word, following Cassian’s trail. Jyn clambers up into the cockpit and stares at the gears.

_Even I came back._

It's his programming, argues the voice in her mind. He basically brainwashed himself. Now is the time to go, before she gets in any deeper.

She touches the gears, sighs. Her mother's pendant rests against her skin, warm and familiar, but one of the dull edges jabs into her collarbone and reminds her of its presence; of Lyra, whose heart burned bright for others, who would never have hidden herself away amongst the stars.

 _Dead weight,_ says Cassian's voice in her head. _You have to be completely here._

If a thing of metal without so much as a real heart is capable of caring, then so is she. Isn't she?

She finds them in the mess hall.

"I told you so," says K-2SO as she slides into her seat, tray of food in hand.

"I never left," she shoots back.

Cassian eats and says nothing, but his self-satisfaction glows from him like heat coils in a podracer engine—and it is this that causes her to turn back to the droid and add: "But you weren't wrong. Thank you."

Let them try to decipher that one.

0 0 0

Unfortunate events strike a number of Imperial sites. Poison contaminates a barracks water supply. A rathar goes on a rampage in a hangar that houses a fleet of newly-minted TIE fighters. Every last crewmember of a Star Destroyer is struck by illness that is found to have been carried aboard via their bedding. The prison on Kessel riots and half the convicts escape, leaving no trail. In major cities, flags are shredded, banners stolen, icons defaced. Supplies go missing. Aircraft are disabled. Communication pathways are hacked and rerouted or destroyed.

The sabotage is carried out by gleeful ghosts, who visit without warning and dart away before the heavy hand of the Empire can fall on them. They are brazen and vicious, exultant, and there is a sense of impudence behind every attack, as though the malefactors are laughing at their victims.

And everywhere: torn red ribbons.

"She wants to play this game," the Director says, eyes like stone, "very well. I'll play."

0 0 0

Jyn ties a strip of red to the corner of the number pad of the door they have just disabled, effectively locking six hundred Stormtroopers inside their bunker while the rebels make off with the just-delivered load of food, medicine, and fuel. Cassian watches with arms crossed.

"Is it wise to taunt him?"

"Probably not. But it's working. It’s getting under his skin, I can feel it."

"I do not think it's wise." They start walking back to the cruiser.

"It shows him his power doesn't stretch as far as he might like to believe."

"It shows him exactly who is behind every incident," he points out.

" _And_ it shows his men how inept their commander is at catching one lone rebel, and how much damage she can do."

He says, "You're not exactly alone."

The stolen supplies feed the rebel base for a month, but much more time passes before Jyn stops replaying his words immediately upon waking or as she drifts asleep or at various times in between.

0 0 0

Worry lines furrow the foreheads of the rebel leaders.

The Empire has habitually overlooked several people and places that have become quite crucial to the cause. Without warning, the rebels are now finding their safe havens flooded with Imperial military personnel. The Empire is arresting anyone even suspected of sympathy with the rebellion. Houses and airships are raided. Whole communities are loaded onto prison freighters, many of whom will never return to the destruction of their homes.

Reliable sources of information vanish overnight. The populace is too scared to talk to anyone who might endanger them or their loved ones. They are not the only ones. Tension spreads through the rebel base from leaders down to laymen. Their jaunty footsteps are slower, more cautious. Anywhere they go, anyone they speak to, might end in arrest. Waiting around the next corner might be a trap; informants are just as likely to be double agents.

The hulking, sluggish Empire is suddenly attentive and organized, and all of it by command of Director Orson Krennic. Here are the fruits of his patience, as though he’s been tolerating their small jabs while winding up a power punch.

When word comes that he has ordered the rubble of a farming town to be coated in bright red paint, Jyn knows it is a message just for her: _This is war._

She grits her teeth.

0 0 0

Bodies.

Months, and all they have to show for it are stacks of white-armored bodies.

“ _Where is she?_ ” the Director roars, charging down the bridge. At the bottom, a group of terrified ensigns scatter.

He grasps the new head of Intelligence by the collar. “Why haven’t you found the rebel base?”

“It’s—” The captain stutters. “It’s a big galaxy, sir.”

“ _SHUT. THEM. DOWN._ ”

Every day brings another report to his desk—full of words but lacking the information he wants. Bodies sometimes accompany the reports but theirs are not the faces he seeks and their minds are empty of the knowledge he craves. The rebels are rash but still wary enough to avoid capture.

It has been a long time since Krennic has hunted someone with such single-minded purpose. He cannot kill her, thanks to the publicity owed to their marriage; despite the damage she has already done to his reputation, killing her with his own hands would make matters far worse.

But oh, he wants to.

0 0 0

She learns things in stages: the names of loved ones who have died at the hands of the Empire; then the hobbies that once went with the names, the proclivities, habits, the small reminders that cause her companions’ eyes to briefly go to some distant place. She wonders if she does that anymore. She doesn't remember much about her mother. She thinks about her father as little as possible.

She's spent almost half her life keeping other people at a safe distance. Safe for them – if Krennic ever finds them he'll murder them. Safe for her – she doubts she can bear to lose another person she truly loves. Safe is best.

—But that is hard to remember when she's laughing in a crowd, celebrating a victory, the bright faces around her quenching the thirst in her heart.

That selfsame heart rears up and says firmly: _No._

_You’ll lose them. Everyone. Guaranteed._

When she looks at those same bright faces she sees their death masks as though a hologram is playing over their features: eyes closed, bloodless, lifeless. The death mask makes it easier to imagine them gone, makes it easier to stop herself from knowing them too well. Stop herself from caring whether they come back.

 _(You’re not alone._  
_Not alone._  
_Not alone.)_

0 0 0

The Director does not train with his Deathtroopers. He has read enough assassination reports to know better than let them know his strong and weak points. He does simulations with them, though: mock scenarios in which instinctively working as a fluid unit may be the only thing that saves him from death.

They have memorized so many drills that most of them Krennic could do in his dreams, and some he has, waking in a tangled heap on the floor beside his bed. Most of his guards have worked for him so long now that they can identify each other by the sound of their breathing and can anticipate any of the others’ moves in surprise scenarios. It is the closest any of them will come to a level of camaraderie.

Today they are committing a new drill to memory: a set full of guerilla fighters. The landscape constantly changes—there are massive water tanks, steeply sloping inclines that plunge them endlessly downwards, powerful floor fans that keep them airborne, sandstorms, snowstorms, locked rooms full of fire and dwindling oxygen, all punctuated with random minutes of pitch-black darkness and shots fired at them from unseen points.

Even three years ago they needed months of practice before a drill was ready for polishing. Now, they have this one near-perfect in a matter of weeks.

The mock guerilla fighters wear hologram masks, and all of them are set to Jyn’s face.

0 0 0

Cassian says: “You ought to know there is a bounty on your head.”

Jyn perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that.” He tosses her the datapad. There on the screen is a sketch of her face, almost in profile, with her cap and goggles covering her hair. It’s a remarkable likeness; the artist must have aged up an old wedding capture with details provided by an observer from the mining town. Apparently she’s causing the Empire a 50,000 credit headache.

“How much is yours worth?”

“There isn’t one out for me. They don’t know I exist.” He taps the side of his nose meaningfully. He adds, “Ah, I didn’t mention. There is one thing you won’t like about that poster,” just before she scrolls down and lets out a furious yell.

 _WANTED ALIVE_  
_JYN KRENNIC_

0 0 0

The red ribbons pile up.

Krennic obsessively studies maps, trying to pin down his recalcitrant wife’s location using the shredded hanfu scraps. He charts dates and locations in an attempt to find a pattern.

A strange déjà vu accompanies the work; he did this sort of search when she vanished after their wedding, and when one of the Deathtroopers says, “You're back to that, are you?” it is only the genuine interest in his voice that saves the whole team from having to run drills as punishment for impudence.

The difference is that last time the trail ran out quickly; she knew how to hide and she did it well. Now, though, she’s providing constant clues as to her location. She’s found her own kind with the rebels—all of them arrogant enough to light a chain of signal fires in the open galaxy and think he won’t bother to see where it leads.

He summons the most veteran member of his guard. Mission details are briefly reviewed. The object is simple: _Find her. Bring me the heads of her compatriots but bring her to me, alive._

The figure in black nods once and vanishes like the shadow he is, and shortly afterward a single-pilot fighter departs from the destroyer: a spot of darkness moving through the galaxy toward an unknown target.

The Director drums his fingers on his desk restlessly. His datapad screen glows, indicating a new message. He opens it and grimaces.

 _Sender: W. TARKIN_  
_Memo: CONSTRUCTION DELAYS_  
_Director,_  
_Status reports on your primary weapon development project are overdue. I expect these within the hour. With any luck, construction progress will make a better showing than last week’s report, though I am not optimistic. Your sub-par performance continues to beg the question of whether you ought to remain in your current role._  
_WT_

 _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
_Memo: [REPLY] CONSTRUCTION DELAYS_  
_Governor,_  
_Here are the weekly status reports, as requested. I wait with bated breath to hear of all the discrepancies I am sure you will take care to find within. Do be sure to let me know when you are given the authority to fire me._  
_Yours, etc._

0 0 0

Jyn realizes she likes mornings. A new day is a new landscape, every hour full of potential.

“There is a 59% chance Jyn will die, a 41% chance Cassian will die, a 33% chance Baze will die, and a 28% chance Chirrut will die.”

Morning review is held in the mess hall. Every morning over breakfast Cassian presents the day’s missions, after which K-2SO tells them the likelihood of failure.

The men start arguing with the droid, demanding as usual to know what he is implying about their ferocity and cunning and that he lower their percentages accordingly. Jyn focuses on her toast and coffee, allowing her mind to indulge in a few imaginary scenarios in the time she has before Cassian calls her back to reality to make her repeat the details of her assignments.

Merrick slides into place beside her. She lifts her face to show him a cheerful smile.

He points his spoon at the others. He knows how morning review goes. “What has you all bright and shiny this early in the day?”

“Oh, well—you never know who might die today.”

He laughs while swallowing his coffee and has to have his back thumped by Wedge. “You have it out for one of these guys? Or let me guess, the droid.”

“I was thinking a little further from home.”

“Ah. The loathsome husband.”

“Don’t call him—”

“He’s safe and sound in the bowels of a shiny Star Destoyer, surrounded by legions of bodyguards,” scoffs Wedge. “Chance of death: zero percent.”

“Not necessarily.”

Merrick quirks an eyebrow at her. “You get an assassination mission, little wife?”

“Don’t call me that. No, unfortunately _they_ —” She casts a look at the table where a few senators are deep in conversation, “—don’t think he’s a worthwhile target at present. I’d prefer his death be by my hand, obviously, but I wouldn’t mind if it were something else. A malfunction causes an explosion, his bodyguards turn on him, his ship gets sucked into a black hole, he’s stabbed in the heart by a zealot, I’m not choosy.”

A Gold pilot says, “Why haven’t you annulled your marriage if you hate him so much?”

“The marriage contract is in his possession. I don’t know where he keeps it.” It rankles that he’s kept it active. Years ago she would have put money on him cancelling it so that he could marry a more compliant socioeconomic bridge. Yet every time she checks the marriage repository, the record is unchanged.

The team wraps up the review with their chances of death firmly fixed at the original percentages and heads toward the hangar to prep. As they pass by the table of senators, Senator Pamlo looks up to smile at Cassian.

Jyn, at his elbow, murmurs: “You going to do something about that?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“She's _interested_ in you, Cassian.”

“My heart’s already taken.” They stride into the hangar. He lifts his arms. “There she is. The love of my life.”

“I’ve told you one hundred times. The cruiser is not an adequate replacement for living, _breathing_ companionship.”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of my in-laws not yelling at me about when I'm going to get a real job and why can't they visit during the holidays. Grab that crate.”

“ _A hunk of metal is not an adequate replacement for_ —”

“I have all the companionship I need. You, K, Chirrut, Baze... There should be a fifth name there.” He looks at K-2SO. “We need another friend.”

Jyn says firmly, “The team is no substitute for a family.”

“I thought we just went over this. Chirrut! You’re on dossier duty.”

“I mean a real family. People who resemble you, who you share a past with. Not replacement parts.” She adds, “And K's not your friend. He doesn't have a brain.”

A crate crashes to the ground behind them. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Cassian yells, “Baze, report!”

“All good, boss.”

Cassian tells Jyn, “K chose us. He chooses us every day. That's good enough for me.” He says, “You getting in or what? Let's go piss off your husband – speaking of family.”

She climbs inside and they blast off to set a fleet of Imperial oil tankers on fire.

0 0 0

Tarkin arrives for an unexpected inspection of Krennic’s major weapon project. Their handshake on arrival is the high point of the occasion.

At its conclusion, Tarkin says: “I am glad to see that you are capable of carrying out simple tasks, at least. I shall be able to report to the Emperor that the concept I proposed appears to be viable.” His eyes glint.

“This is _my_ work! _I_ did this!”

“You performed the work required to realize my vision. Do not for a moment think of attempting to take credit for this, Krennic. I am the visionary; you are merely the laborer.”

The Director goes down to the shooting range and spends an hour decimating mannikins that bear a striking resemblance to a certain Grand Moff.

0 0 0

It’s a bad day for the rebels: the Empire has updated their code scramblers.

A communications officer tells Mon Mothma, “The decoder can’t be copied. We need an original,” to which General Draven replies that the simplest solution will be to acquire one from an Imperial starship.

“A Star Destroyer would have the entire code database. The smaller starships don’t,” Cassian points out.

Mon Mothma closes her eyes briefly. “A Destroyer.”

“And they can’t know we have it, or they’ll rewrite everything and we’re back to square one.”

“So we get aboard, steal the decoder,” says Jyn, “then blow up the Destroyer.”

Draven says, “We don’t have the explosives to detonate an entire Destroyer.”

Cassian shakes his head. “Think smaller. Just blow up the area that held the code files. Make it look like a botched mission that we weren’t able to complete.”

Mon Mothma looks at the General.

He says, “It might work.”

“We have a plan, then. Any volunteers?”

-

Their target is a newly minted Star Destroyer that is being loaded for its first voyage. If all goes as planned, rebel forces will appear to have wanted to destroy the ship before it could launch, it being more vulnerable while grounded.

Cassian and K-2SO run point, as they have the most experience and are the least likely to stand out among the ship’s crew once in disguise. They smuggle themselves aboard inside a supply load. Jyn, Baze, and Chirrut wait outside, pretending to be members of the loading crew, which isn’t difficult to do once they commandeer a transport vehicle and drive around the tarmac as though they have a legitimate destination.

Thirty tense minutes pass before K-2SO sends the location of the files. They get to work.

The Destroyer is the size of a small city; from Jyn’s view below, it seems to go on forever. Thankfully the outer shield won’t be activated until takeoff, which they use to their advantage. They have an apparatus that launches explosives at the metallic underside of the ship, where each will stick via a magnetic hold until called upon to fulfill its purpose. After they’ve covered their target range they drive to the far edge of the ship and do the same to its ascending side.

“No ribbon?” says Baze.

Jyn shrugs. “How would I do it? He can’t know we were on the ground.”

“ _Clear_ ,” says Cassian’s voice in her headset.

“All Alliance forces clear of the strike zone,” she transmits to General Draven. “Standing by.”

“ _Red Unit in formation, approaching target now._ ” They lift their eyes to the sky, searching for the Alliance fleet.  
The brief appearance of rebel planes will provide a reason for the explosion; they will be quickly chased away by Imperial forces, with no one the wiser as to the real purpose for their presence.

“ _Sergeant Erso, detonate on my count._ ”

Jyn grins.

-

“Were any of them on board?”

“None, sir. All surveillance cams and security pads have been reviewed. There is no evidence of tampering.”

“There wouldn’t be any, would there? Not from the parts of the ship that were destroyed!”

The ensign trembles, “Yes sir. No sir?”

The Director crosses his arms and seems to study the console. The ensign glances nervously at the statue-like Deathtroopers standing a few yards away.

“The code files,” Krennic says. “Are they accounted for?”

“Yes, sir. The unit was found in the rubble.”

“Confirm the serial numbers.”

“I can’t, sir. The casing is damaged.”

Krennic’s eyes take on a red light. “Locate it. Bring it to me immediately.”

“Sir.” The ensign departs with unconcealed relief.

“She’s behind this,” Krennic tells the line of Deathtroopers. “She’s _behind_ this!” he roars, flipping the desk over. The figures in black watch silently.

“But how can you be sure?” says another ensign, who is either too new or too stupid to know better. “There was no ribbon.”

Krennic looks up at the control deck window, out at the stars suspended in the blackness now concealing the rebels. He speaks through gritted teeth. “It was her.”

0 0 0

The figure hurtling through the sky is hardly visible but for the flare of light released by the jetpack. It zooms through the clouds, somersaulting and spinning in a dance that does not need translation.

Happiness ignites in Jyn like a firecracker. Stars burst in her heart, their fragments strung through her blood. The sky is black and endless. White clouds are pile on the horizon like mountains. The galaxy opens above her to reveal diamond showers flung across the sky. The air rushing over her skin – it’s like dropping back into herself. The constellations are as familiar a home as she has ever had. Moments like this, she is in love with the whole galaxy, every last particle of it.

It rushes through her: the wonder that is life, the wonder that it is to live; all the different heartbeats strewn across the galaxy, pumping with their own fire; and that they are all making their way through the universe together, this immeasurable universe filled with more marvels than tongue can tell.

0 0 0

No one speaks; the white fury of the Director’s face does not bode well for anyone who values their life, and none present want to be the target of his attention.

“What did you say?” he says, low and grating.

The trembling corporal takes a breath and says, “All the kyber crystals in this month’s delivery were stolen and replaced with fish.”

“Fish.”

“Scalefish. To be precise.”

“I don’t care what kind of fish.” He turns to roar at the room, “ _Find those crates!_ FIND THE REBEL BASE! Or all of you will be held accountable! MOVE!”

If the crystals were well-stocked, a few weeks’ delay would be an inconvenience at most—but the rebels in Jedha have been diligent in their efforts. The Director is already in hot water over construction delays; he can’t afford setback like this.

“Where is it?” he says savagely.

A trembling ensign steps forward and holds out the strip of red fabric.

Krennic turns it over his hands. Once it was part of the hem: this section boasts embroidery and gold leaf.

“So she wants to send me gifts of dead things. Well, I am happy to reciprocate.”

-

The session room is empty save for three figures. Cassian stands silent, looking thoughtful.

Mon Mothma says, “We don't have the resources for your pranks. You must stop this, Jyn.”

Jyn protests, “They aren't pranks!” She collects herself and tries to emulate the senator’s perpetually calm tone. “I respectfully disagree, ma’am. Actions like these serve a purpose: they make him look the fool. Krennic is _brilliant_. He's only going to develop more and more programs the Empire can use against us. If we can make him look incompetent, we might be able to get him demoted to a position where he can only do a fraction of the damage of which he's currently capable.”

They all look up at the hurried entrance of General Merrick. “I need you to fill in for Melshi, Andor. Rescue mission. Supply ship in the A5 sector sent a distress call.”

On his heels is a concerned Wedge: “They went silent right after making the call. That was four minutes ago.”

Jyn says, “Where do you need me?”

“Sit tight, Sarge,” Merrick tells her. “We’re going to see how bad it is. We’ll call you if we need backup.”

On the tarmac, Jyn stands with arms crossed beside Mon Mothma. They watch the pilots load in, taxi out, and take off.

“I hate staying behind,” says Jyn.

Mon Mothma squints at the departing planes, already spots in the distance.

“So do I,” she says, and they turn to go inside.

-

It’s an hour before they get word. A subdued communications desk informs the base that the rescue team was too late.

“Report just came through. Confirmed Imperial attack. All dead on arrival. Alliance forces returning now.”

-

Cassian finds her in a dusty corridor with her head pillowed on her arms. He sits down beside her and doesn’t speak, just leans his head back against the wall and sighs. They sit in silence until she can breathe again without feeling like there are iron bands around her ribs.

He says, “We all knew what we were getting into when we joined up. The same risk is attached to everything we do. Every action has a consequence. Always. And that goes both ways. All this stuff you’re doing, Jyn?”

She turns her head to look at him over the curve of her arm.

“It’s working. Don’t stop now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [any woman who is sure of her own wits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0oMhfPF9qck), [is a match](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=el1QWfnYy_c), [at any time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbdBPGTiRKw), [for a man who is not sure of his own temper.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QKARCPO3sA)


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes she feels as though she's in the middle of an ongoing argument—except that her words are methods of sabotage and his replies are the spilling of blood.

It’s an odd sort of competition, fueled by constant frustration and anger: if he gets ahead in some way, be it casualties or intelligence, she must strike a worse blow back. She studies projects he has been involved in, even some dating back to his schooldays. She falls asleep trying to predict his next move. It seems her ears are always pricked for the mention of his name. Every fact she can gather about him is an opportunity: traits to exploit.

Trying to stay a step ahead of him is exhausting but worth it. She knows she’s making waves – small ones, perhaps, but her efforts are being felt. The increased circulation of her reward posters is one of the more pleasant ways she is able gauge the effect. The unjust execution of innocents, however – them, she spends sleepless nights trying not to think about.

Cassian says nothing, but she knows he disapproves of her motives. He fights for vengeance for his dead family, a purer excuse for the things the rebels do than her drive for revenge against a man who had the gall to marry her. It has become more than that for her, now, but she doesn’t know how to put it into words.

“Obsessed,” the team calls her. She waves them away. If they’re right, she doesn’t care.

0 0 0

 

> **KRENNIC, JYN [née ERSO]**  
>  Born: 3628 ATC / Age: 25 Galactic Years  
>  Parents: Lyra Erso, Galen Erso  
>  Spouse: Orson Krennic (3644 ATC - present)  
>  Children: None known  
>  Confirmed Aliases: Lianna Hallik, Tanith Ponta, Kestrel Dawn  
>  Record of Offenses: Forgery of Imperial documents [penalty outstanding]. Possession of stolen property [penalty outstanding]. Aggravated assault [penalty outstanding]. Resisting arrest [penalty outstanding]. Fleeing custody [penalty outstanding]. _See details below._

He has read her dossier so many times he could recite parts of it. He dissects the sparse information provided and tries to think the way she thinks, see his methods the way she sees them, find flaws and opportunities she would be attuned to and might act on. He regrets having ignored her during the brief interlude before their wedding – had he paid more attention, he might not be speculating now. He draws on his knowledge of her father to try to guess at her way of thinking; for the first time in his life he wishes he had known Lyra Erso better.

He barks orders to squadrons of Stormtroopers as they lay traps. He goes to the sites that have received the rebels’ unwelcome attention and stands on hills of rubble, trying to see what she would have seen.

They bring him ripped strips of fabric. The sight is a regular one now, and the response it elicits has become little more than a noise of irritation in the back of his throat. He still keeps the charts of locations and dates.

“Obsessed,” the Deathtroopers mutter to each other. They don’t dare say it within range of his hearing.

0 0 0

Jyn watches Cassian perform routine maintenance work on the cruiser; her arm is hooked over back of bench, chin resting on the back of her wrist. She says, “What turns someone into a man like that?”

He wipes his hands on a rag. “Where is this coming from?”

“The better I understand the way he thinks, the better I can anticipate his moves.”

“To read a mind that twisted you need a Jedi.”

“You’re giving him too much credit.”

“I’ve been fighting Krennic for a long time. He’s capable of anything. There’s no telling where he gets his ideas, or how they’ll play out.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people. What’s your motivation?”

“You know my motivation,” he tells her, with a set to his jaw that tells her the conversation is closed.

0 0 0

He’s rather adept at setting traps.

Sometimes the rebels are boringly predictable. They flock to classified intelligence like flies to honey. It’s the easiest bait in the world.

He sends them chasing sources into asteroid fields. He lures them to planets full of monsters. He feeds them false intel through perfectly positioned sources, all of whom believe they are aiding the rebel cause. It is all too easy to make them look to the left when he is busy with machinations on the right.

His traps are elegant. They are beautifully constructed. Each one is a variation on a maze, a carefully mapped road where a turn or detour is no accident. His traps are manipulations. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and the wolf itself believes it is a sheep. What Orson Krennic knows about traps is that the key to superiority is that it never occurs to the victim they are in a trap, not even when they are caught in it.

He catches a good many insurgents. None of them are his ultimate target; as it happens, she is unfortunately as good as slithering out of his traps as he is at making them.

This does not worry him unduly. Eventually she’ll make a misstep; everyone does. All he need do is wait.

0 0 0

The holoscreens show figures at work: four humans dismantling the software that regulates a massive dam. The light is bad; details cannot be made out, and their heavy coats make it hard to distinguish gender. One is distinctly shorter than the others. Deep in the forest of the lush green planet, sensor cams track the figures back to their carefully concealed cruiser.

“Rebels, sir.”

“Confirmed?”

“By three sources.”

“Excellent. Raise the shield.”

-

Cassian and K-2SO are in the cockpit going through the motions of ascent. Their voices are hardly more than a murmur over the noise of the ship gaining altitude, but Jyn’s heard the process so many times she could probably say the words for them. She is tired; they woke early for this mission. The heat in the cabin is welcome after hours on a planet of eternal spring. The vibrations of the ship lull her into a stupor.

“No one on our tail. Crossing out of atmosphere.”

“Countdown to hyperspeed,” says K-2SO.

The sky before them takes on an odd blue tinge.

“ _Wall!_ ” Jyn screams.

Cassian uses his entire body to pull back on the throttle before hyperspeed hurls them into certain destruction against the shield wall. The ship slows. The entire team sags back into their seats in relief.

K-2SO says, “The intended exit point is slightly south of us.”

They all look outside to see a cluster of ships grouped around an enormous gate suspended in the sky. The rest of the sky is blocked by the shield wall, which appears to encircle the entire planet.

“That’s new,” says the droid.

“Checkpoints,” says Cassian. “They know we’re here. I’ll have to find another way out.”

“Don’t turn around! If you change course, they’ll know instantly it’s us!”

“What do you suggest we do, then, Jyn!”

Her heart is racing. “We’ll have to brazen it out.”

“We can’t bluff our way through an Imperial checkpoint!”

The shield spreads as far as she can see in every direction. “We’ve already lost. The only thing left to do is try.”

“I second Jyn,” says Chirrut. Baze grunts.

Cassian shakes his head in frustration, but he turns the cruiser toward the checkpoint.

K-2SO says, “There is a ninety-four percent chance—”

“Shut it,” chorus the others.

They draw closer. “Easy,” Cassian murmurs. “Make it look natural.”

An inspection ship half the size of a Destroyer blocks the exit portal. Smaller craft circle it, guiding the uninspected departing craft into place. There is a short queue, but they will be up for inspection within minutes.

“I hope you have a story ready,” K-2SO tells Cassian. Jyn grips her mother’s crystal so tightly it wouldn’t surprise her to find blood on her palm, but she hardly feels it.

The cruiser is drawn up to one of the docks on the inspection ship. A crackling voice on comms demands entrance. Cassian reluctantly opens the bay door.

A thin man in gray flanked by two Stormtroopers says: “Identification.”

“We don’t have papers,” Cassian lies. “There was an explosion in our last ship, destroyed everything. We’re still waiting for replacements.”

“Temporary IDs, then.”

“We’re still waiting for those too.”

“Names, then,” drawls the inspector. Cassian rattles off their aliases. The man types each name into his handheld and squints at the results.

“None of you have departure clearance. Prepare to be boarded.”

Jyn shuts her eyes tightly.

In a slightly distant voice, the officer says, “Departure clearance is not required. Exit approved. Please proceed when instructed. Have a nice day.” The trio marches away. Cassian slams the button to close the bay door. A voice on comms says, “ _Cleared for exit._ ”

Cassian says, “Hyperspeed, _now_.”

Jyn doesn’t open her eyes until they have made the jump. She releases the pendant and starts to massage feeling back into her hand. She looks up to find the others staring at her.

Cassian looks suspicious. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” She isn’t sure she can answer his question. She isn’t sure she can’t, either.

In their seats across from her, Chirrut nudges Baze.

Baze snorts. Beside him, Chirrut starts laughing as though he has been told good news.

Jyn isn’t sure she wants to ask why.

-

“This was _foolproof!_ What have those imbeciles done? _After them! Go, go, go!_ ”

Troops depart at a run, not that it will make a difference. Krennic glares at the monitor, blue lights blinking across his face, as the white blur that is the cruiser grows smaller and smaller until it reaches the edge of the signal and she vanishes into the safe harbor of space.

0 0 0

Mon Mothma enters the control room flanked by Merrick and Pamlo. At the sight of Jyn’s expression she says, “What has he done?”

Jyn shakes her head.

Draven says, “This came from a higher security clearance than Director Krennic, ma’am. The Empire is attacking a transport ship. Unarmed, carrying civilians.”

Mon Mothma’s brows lift. “And why have we not deployed an offensive?”

“It’s in the Belen sector, ma’am.” Her face shifts; she doesn’t need to hear the rest, but he says it for the benefit of the others in the room. “We don’t have a presence there. If we act, the Empire will know we have the encryption codes.”

Jyn says, “So sacrifice the codes!”

From Bail Organa: “We’ve been able to use those codes to save multitudinous lives already. We can’t sacrifice them just to save one ship.”

“We don’t know what the future holds. The Empire might update their encryption database tomorrow. Then what will your precious codes be good for? What we are sure of is that those people are going to die if we don’t act.”

Draven looks at the gathered council members. “We don’t have time to debate. If we’re flying out, I need to give the order now.”

The council puts it to a vote. They elect to preserve the codes.

Mon Mothma says, “It’s not what any of us want, Jyn. This is how it is in war.” Her words are stoic, but her eyes are full of grief.

“I hope every last code is changed tonight,” Jyn says, and leaves the room.

-

Jyn rounds the nose of the craft and almost trips over Cassian. His arms are crossed and his mouth is thinned. He raises his brows expressively at her.

She glares at him. “I didn’t join you to do nothing.”

“Stand down, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

“Not you too. Just like them, cowards, sitting on their hands. It doesn’t cost anything to feel bad about it. All those people are going to die and we could do something, we have to _do something_.” Sudden hot, furious tears spill from her eyes. “That makes us culpable, Cassian. Letting the Empire burn up the world, averting our eyes, how do you think we got here in the first place?”

“You’re one person, Jyn. What do you possibly hope to accomplish? You can’t stop a Star Destroyer!”

She wipes her face and shakes her head. “No, but I can empty the transport ship. If I override their alert system to say there is a fire in every quad, all the passengers will be evacuated. Transport ships are required to carry evacuation pods.”

He stares at her. A beat; “That might work,” he says.

“ _I know._ ”

He looks uncertain. She knows he’s debating asking for permission from the council, which he knows will be denied, but it won’t look good if he flies in the face of orders.

She smiles.

“Cassian, I think you should go to supper. And perhaps collect anyone who might be around to see me leave, hm?”

“I’m not letting you go out there alone!”

“The only way I’ll stay off the Destroyer’s radar is in a single-pilot ship.”

“When the Council finds out—”

She shrugs dismissively. “They’re expecting me to do something like this. Some of them might even be counting on it.”

“Well,” Cassian says, “at least let me give you a hand up.”

-

Two hundred fifty-seven people die.

Five hundred forty-six people live.

Jyn is taken off active duty for two weeks; everyone forgets the order in three days.

Generally speaking, she’s satisfied with how it all played out.

0 0 0

The Director’s footsteps ring on the metal walkways as he makes his way through the ship. He reaches his quarters and enters the code on a massive steel door that opens to a set of colorless rooms. A valet droid takes his cape and uniform jacket.

Going to a stairwell, he descends into the lower tier of his quarters. The sharp scent of cut wood greets him; the space is a workshop, stocked with every sort of tool in the galaxy. Pieces of furniture in various stages of completion are scattered around the room.

Krennic goes to a worktable holding a half-constructed bottle rack that still possesses the pale glow of unvarnished wood. He attaches the legs, testing and adjusting until it stands level. His hands move with ease and sureness, painting the poles a varnish only a few shades darker than the wood, sealing it, setting it shining. When finished, he walks around it a few times, looking satisfied. The bottle rack might have come from the hands of an expert craftsman, purchased at a high-end shop. Its creator carries it to an anteroom and sets it in place beside a small shelf. Rows of chairs, tables, footstools, chests, cabinets, dining apparatus, and other miscellaneous creations stand in neat rows behind it. None have ever been used; none ever will be.

The Director’s datapad lights up. Visible on the screen are chains of messages:

 

> _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
>  _Memo: [REPLY3] BRIN MAREKO_  
>  _I want him replaced immediately._
> 
> _Sender: W. TARKIN_  
>  _Memo: [REPLY4] BRIN MAREKO_  
>  _Mareko is one of our best scientists. He will remain on Eadu._  
>  _WT_
> 
> _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
>  _Memo: [REPLY5] BRIN MAREKO_  
>  _Surely you can’t be serious. The man is worse than the putrescence at the bottom of a barrel of rotten fish. Any court in the galaxy would sentence him to death by Rancor at a moment’s notice. My team doesn’t want to work alongside him and I wholeheartedly agree._
> 
> _Sender: W. TARKIN_  
>  _Memo: [REPLY6] BRIN MAREKO_  
>  _Leave the matter be. That is an order._  
>  _WT_
> 
> _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
>  _Memo: BRIN MAREKO_  
>  _To the attention of all research staff,_  
>  _Regardless of your opinion of the after-hours activities of Scientist Mareko, understand that we are to protect our own. Mareko will remain on the team in his current proximity. This is by order of Imperial Governor Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin._  
>  _As a matter of caution, I suggest you not invite the man into your home under any circumstances._  
>  _Signed,_  
>  _Commander Orson Krennic, Imperial Military Director, Advanced Weapons Research Division_
> 
> _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
>  _Memo: [HIGH IMPORTANCE] Whiteout Beta Phase_  
>  _Project Whiteout is approved for development. Stand by for further instructions._
> 
> _Sender: O. KRENNIC_  
>  _Memo: [REPLY1] E-11 RIFLES – TRAINING RECRUITS_  
>  _Send thirty with the supply drop. That’s all I’ll allocate. Shore troops take priority. I don’t want to hear any more about it._
> 
> _Sender: M. NIIK_  
>  _Memo: MAREKO_  
>  _Director Krennic,_  
>  _Per your instructions, the hourly status update on scientist Brin Mareko is as follows:_  
>  _Transmissions received stating that at 13:01 GST an imperial shuttle carrying Mareko and three other scientists was attacked by rebel forces. Brin Mareko confirmed dead. Please reply for full casualty list._  
>  _Sincerely,_  
>  _Sgt. Niik, Intelligence Division_

The Director smiles and goes back upstairs.

0 0 0

She’s never seen snow fall so slowly. The landscape is all deep jade green, highlighted on the edges with bright white. The forest is so still that if Jyn listens carefully she can sometimes hear the impact of the feather-light ice crystals touching down near her ears.

She watches the road from her perch within the shelter of a sturdy fir tree. Thermal boots and hot wires running through her gloves keep her body comfortably warm and her trigger finger ready for action. They are waiting for a supply convoy en route to a training school; this thoroughfare is the only access route to the campus, which was built on a mountainside that can only receive small aircraft. The supplies will feed two hundred people for a month. New blasters are worth their weight in kyber.

An ignorant observer would never guess the forest around her is peppered with rebel forces. There are fifteen of them total, ready to make their move as soon as the convoy is in their crosshairs. She can make out the shape of Merrick’s knee in the tree across the road. Huddled on the ground under a snow-covered blanket a few meters away are Cassian and K-2SO. Baze’s wrapped head is visible through the boughs of the tree to her right, and a few feet above him sits Chirrut, whom she is certain has been asleep for the last hour. They have been waiting for two hours now; it will probably be another hour before there is movement on the road.

Despite the fact that they are on a mission, Jyn relaxes in the stillness. The fight in her gives way to brief peace of this muffled world. It’s been a long time since she didn’t have to be constantly thinking, planning, ready at a moment’s notice. It’s been a long time since she could do something as simple as watch snow fall.

Wondering what supper will be, she lazily scans a distant bluff top. These are a different breed of mountains than the ones she grew up climbing—they are lower and steeper and topped with fir trees. Odd, the way snow can play tricks on the eyes. The falling flakes skew the world ever so slightly, make the ground seem like it’s moving. Gusts of wind set them spinning, mass them together into a dancing throng like a living thing.

A flip of her heart—

There is no wind.

Stormtroopers. One hundred or more. Steadily filing down the ridge toward the forest floor and the supply road.

She slithers down the tree as quickly as she can. The squadron is a ways off yet, and the Alliance forces are between them and the cruiser; the rebels have time. She tells herself not to panic.

Staying low to the ground, she makes her way to where the Captain hides. He looks up at her in surprise.

K-2SO says, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Evacuate immediately. It’s a trap.”

Cassian is on his feet in an instant, giving the low double whistle that means return to the ship.

Staying low to the ground, they run quickly and silently back to the snow-topped cruiser. Merrick is the pilot; he stays as close to the canopy top as he can, trying to move out of the range of vision of any planes that might follow. The second they are ready for hyperspeed he makes the jump and everyone breathes out in relief.

“No one following,” he reports.

One of Merrick’s team says, “What in the galaxy just happened?”

Cassian says, “Jyn?”

“Krennic knows we have the decryption codes.”

Exclamations from all sides.

“How can he possibly?

“Surely not. The code system would have been changed.”

“If you’ve ever trusted me before, trust me now. He knows.”

“We need to tell the council.”

“How long has he known, do you think?”

Jyn says, “There’s no way to tell. For some time, certainly. Maybe from the beginning.”

Cassian frowns. “It makes no sense. If he's known all this time, why hasn't he told anyone?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, but he hasn’t.” She props her elbows on her knees and rubs her eyes, thinking hard. “It’s a game. He’ll send fake messages to move us out of the way while he’s busy elsewhere. Remember the Ryloth fiasco? With true ones, he knows exactly how to prepare for us. Like today.”

“Clever bastard,” remarks Baze.

“Indeed.” Jyn rests her forehead in her hands. “What are we going to do?”

“Tread carefully, for starters,” says Chirrut.

Cassian goes up front to speak to Merrick; the others talk quietly amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from concern to ire. Jyn sits by one of the windows and watches the stars grow close and then distant as the ship passes by.

 _Snow_ , she thinks. _Clever bastard_.

0 0 0

Cassian is asleep at the wheel. In the co-pilot seat Jyn works out a number puzzle while they wait for the go-ahead from base.

Sunshine streams into the cockpit. The open bay door lets in buzzing insects that she swats away while trying to concentrate. Baze and Chirrut are outside performing training maneuvers, though Jyn hears more laughter than anything else.

She frowns at her puzzle. She's usually decent at these, even the advanced levels, but one of the droids made this one for her and she's been wrestling with it for a few hours now.

K-2SO leans over her shoulder and says, "That's a seven."

"Go away." When he isn't looking she quietly adds a 7 to the grid.

Cassian wakes quickly, as is his wont. "Anything?"

"Nothing yet."

He nods to her puzzle. "How goes it?"

She makes a face. He says consolingly, "They're always harder on paper than on a datapad. Paper won't give you clues," and she shoves him away.

The comms speaker crackles. “ _Look alive_ ,” says Wedge’s disembodied voice. Jyn stuff the puzzle in her pack and slides out of her chair to make way for a hovering K-2SO.

Their mission is a straightforward arson job, with atypical favorable predictions of survival that turn out to be accurate. Arson is Baze’s favorite kind of sabotage and he runs point, bossing everyone around and unconsciously reminding everyone why they prefer Cassian as team leader. Jyn is unconvinced Cassian didn’t plan it that way.

When they are all on board again and headed home, she digs through her bag, frowning.

Cassian says, "What's wrong?"

"Lost my puzzle. I must have dropped it when I took out the hanfu."

"Oh well. Won’t see that one again. Probably a mercy.”

He is wrong. She is in Coruscant when she sees it again: completed in a neat hand, the empty boxes filled, some corrected, blown up to one hundred times its original size and flicking in and out of sight on the display boards that cover the half the buildings in the city. Nothing but the puzzle is shown and no explanation is given; it just slides past her on dozens of screens, like the taunt it is.

0 0 0

“I want it to be me.”

“It can’t be you. There are thousands of bounty hunters looking for you.”

“I can’t believe you don’t understand how important this is to me.”

“Of course I know, Jyn, what else have you talked about since you joined us? But you running this mission is too dangerous and you know it. It’s to be me and Chirrut and that’s final.” Cassian relents enough to say, “You can be on site. _In the cruiser._ Watching via broadcast. And when he’s down you can come out and see the body, _if_ it’s safe.”

The snow trap was the straw that broke the back of the rebel leaders: they finally consider Krennic enough of a threat to eliminate him. To her great frustration, Jyn is involved in planning the assassination but little else.

The plan is fairly simple: a lure, a distraction, and poison. Jyn is the lure: they will send a transmission to Krennic stating that she wants to talk, hinting that she might be willing to make a deal that involves her turning herself in. Cassian is the distraction: just another body in the cantina where they will meet, who offers to buy the great man a drink doctored by Chirrut.

Baze doesn’t like the plan, which he says is more full of holes than a barn roof on Dagobah. He tells them that this sort of thing never works out and offers to make a bet against anyone who thinks the Director will be dead by the day’s end. “What if he isn’t thirsty?” he demands.

“Then we shoot him,” says Chirrut, who does like the plan, or lack thereof. He likes leaving things to chance; it’s more exciting. “Of course, we’ll probably be the next ones to die, in that case.”

“You have one chance to surprise this man,” replies Baze; the air around him is thick with disapproval. “You will not succeed with this nonsense. It screams of a trap.”

“Of course he’ll know it’s a trap,” says Jyn irritably. “The first thing he probably does when he wakes up is check for traps. I don’t see why you won’t just set me up as a sniper.”

“Because the first thing they will do is sweep the area for snipers. If he’s going to meet you in the open it has to be at a place he thinks is safe.” Cassian says, “The more we plan, the more things will go wrong. This will work. If it doesn’t, we’ll try again, a different way.”

“You are too eager to strike. You will lose the crucial element of surprise,” insists Baze. “There is no getting that back. After this, he knows we hunt him.”

“Not if he doesn’t know I’m a rebel,” answers Cassian.

“I don’t like it,” say Baze and Jyn together.

“You don’t have to!” he answers, and that settles that.

-

The Director arrives on a white shuttle that lands in the sand some distance from the cantina. A squadron of TIE fighters have been circling for the last two hours; they haven’t found any items of interest, and now appear to be patrolling.

Jyn lies on her stomach on the top of a dune, dressed in brown and clutching binoculars. The cruiser, which she has strict orders from Cassian to leave under no circumstances, is hidden in a cave a mile away.

The Deathtroopers emerge first. Then—the white cape appears, topped by a sandy-colored head, and the whole contingent marches toward the ramshackle building.

It’s odd, seeing the actual person, even if from a distance. It’s as though he’s more alive somehow. The feud between them has gone on so long she sometimes forgets there is a breathing body at the other end—one who walks and eats and sleeps.

She finds she doesn’t like the reminder that he is human—that a regular human brain has been able to accomplish all this horror. She resents the fact that her own human brain has the potential to outthink him and has failed countless times. She resents the fact that she has begun to expect above-average cleverness from him, she resents all the times he has proved her right—and she resents the grudging respect she feels every time he outthinks their best plans.

-

The man across from Krennic looks and smells like he is on the third day of a bender. The cantina’s windows are unglazed; when a breeze blows through, the Director covers his nose with his gloved hand and breathes from his mouth.

“Ah! Hur’s a goo’ man, a goo’ man,” slurs his unwelcome tablemate as the bartender approaches. “Hur’s a goo’ man wiv a drink! A drink fer you, sir, the great, great, _great_ man.”

The bartender places two cups on the table; the drunkard throws his back instantly. Krennic watches him sway in his seat.

“Have mine,” he says.

The other man pauses. “Tha’s kind, sir, it is kind. But this drink, fer you. Is a _demonshrashun_ of my _respecks_.”

“I insist. A demonstration of my mutual respect.” Krennic pushes the glass across the table.

“Thankee kindly, sir,” the drunkard says, and raises the drink in a toast. As he brings it to his lips another patron pushes past him, jostling the arm holding the glass.

The Deathtroopers are trained in select skills; one of these is heightened reflexes. The glass falls to the ground, but before all of the contents can be spilled in the dirt it is retrieved and replaced on the table. A layer of liquid sits in the bottom. A thin layer, to be sure, but still drinkable.

“Mm. Unfortunate, but—something is better than nothing.” Krennic gestures toward the glass encouragingly.

The other man’s eyes glance around the room. “Many thanks, sir.”

“Bottoms up,” drawls Krennic.

The other man picks up the glass and stares at the contents inside.

“On second though’, sir, p’raps it’s a sign—s’time to stop.” He sets the glass down.

“Do it,” orders the Director, and two Deathtroopers grip the other man by the shoulders to hold him in place.

“Don’t! Don’t shoot!” yells the drunkard hoarsely.

“No one is shooting anyone. Open his mouth. Pour it in. Make sure he swallows.” They obey. When he is satisfied that all the remaining liquid has made its way down the drunkard’s throat, Krennic nods to his guards to release him.

He collapses in the chair, wide-eyed. After a moment he starts taking huge, gulping breaths.

Krennic watches dispassionately. “Unlike many of my colleagues, I'm not stupid enough to drink something I didn't pour myself or test on one of them,” indicating his bodyguards with a careless wave of his hand. “You seem to be serving as an efficient test subject, however. I think I'll, ah, forego the selection here, hm?” His eyes narrow. “Who are you working for?”

“No—one. Didn’t—know.”

“A likely story.” He stands and draws his pistol. The drunkard claws at his swelling throat. “You are going to die an excruciatingly painful death. If I’m right, and I know my poisons, it is akin to drowning on dry land. Tell me what you know and I’ll make it quick.”

One of the shuttle pilots runs in. “Director! Transmission just came through. The Grand Moff requesting an audience.”

Krennic rolls his eyes at _requesting_. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Lord Vader is with him.”

The Director growls in irritation, looking at the dying drunkard. “I don’t want this trash on my shuttle. You three—stay here, learn what you can. I’ll send a cruiser for you.” He sweeps out in a blur of white, the other Deathtroopers in tow.

The instant he steps outside a brawl erupts in the cantina. Tables turn over, glasses go flying through the air, punches are thrown, fighting bodies are everywhere. In the chaos the dying drunkard disappears, and the trio of Deathtroopers are left with nothing except more questions.

-

It’s an hour before they are allowed into the sick bay. A pale, exhausted Cassian greets them from under the watchful eye of the head medic, who has made the team promise to leave after ten minutes so that the patient can sleep.

Jyn’s heart has been pounding at double speed since the first cry of “ _Get him out!”_ over her headset, and the sight of him alive and clear-eyed slows her heart but doesn’t unknot her stomach.

Cassian says: “You came after me. I told you not to.”

Chirrut says, “And do we _ever_ listen.”

“How’d you get him to leave?”

“Jyn sent a fake transmission. Summons from Tarkin, got him out of there pretty quick.”

“He bought that? Seriously?”

“Sure did.”

Cassian shakes his head. “But not that I was trying to pander to him. Go figure.”

Jyn says, “Maybe he’s so accustomed to genuine pandering that he can recognize the false kind.”

“Maybe. My mouth tastes horrible. Do you have—”

“No food!” barks the medic.

Cassian scowls but subsides. “Alright, new plan. Ideas? Krennic didn’t get a chance to confirm I was with the rebellion, so we’ve still got that going for us. Though he did seem to know Jyn wouldn’t show. Difficult to read. Too smart by half. I can’t wait to knock him off the playing field.”

He is sweating. Jyn looks at the others; they all silently agree to leave.

“Just focus on getting better,” she tells him. “You had a very close call. We’ll reconvene when you’re back up to speed.”

“Don’t get used to the holiday,” he warns them. “I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

-

Jyn wastes twenty minutes in the training ring making errors on familiar fighting baton techniques before giving up. She goes to Chirrut.

“How do you bear it? Waking up every day knowing that the person who matters to you more than anybody, that today might be his last? That any word you say might be the last one you speak to him?”

His expression becomes very kind. “Death is not the end, Jyn.”

“You believe in an afterlife?”

“I do, but that is not of what I speak. Your mother and father are part of you, are they not? Even though dead, they are one of your layers. Think of the rings of a tree, or the lines in the cliffside. You carry them with you wherever you are. And so you honor them with your life because that layer is part of the making of you. And the layer you leave in other lives—that is you, of course, but it is also all the people who have been the making of you. In this life, we carry forward everyone who came before us.”

She has never known someone who does not fear grief. He makes it sound easy.

Chirrut considers. “Easy? No. Simple, perhaps; not easy. But I’ve yet to witness you back down from a challenge.” He winks at her, an odd gesture from a blind man, but one that fills her with affection.

“I’ll carry you forward with me, Chirrut Imwe,” she tells him, “but I’ll be gladder to walk beside you for as long as you’re here.”

“And I to you, Jyn Erso,” he tells her.

She squeezes his shoulder and heads to the kitchens to find something palatable for Cassian.

0 0 0

The sky spreads out before her like a dark plain of multitudinous roads. The monitors, set to the coordinates the Empire so longs for, show her the route home.

Jyn is often paired with K-2SO for minor missions, since Baze and Chirrut are always partners and Cassian tends to work alone. The tiny fighter barely holds them both, so it’s a blessing that Jyn doesn’t take up much space and that the droid has no circulatory system. They are on the back end of a mission—nothing spectacular, just making contact with a spy who had no information to relay—and making their way around an asteroid field when it happens.

The Imperial ship appears out of nowhere, shining silver in the light from a distant star, visually hardly bigger than a beetle at this distance.

Jyn slams the fighter’s cloaking button and turns off the radar. Safely concealed, she peers at the ship through her binoculars. It’s a shuttle, the sort that carries more important personages than ground troops. It is traveling parallel to her.

She murmurs, “Where did you come from?”

They are parallel for now, she realizes, but the angle of the other ship’s route is headed away from hers. She’ll lose it soon.

“K, can you hack into their manifest from here?”

“I'll try. What are we looking for?”

“Director Krennic. And stop rolling your eyes.”

“I don't have the hardware to roll my eyes,” he says in a tone that implies he is still rolling them.

“Please, K. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Ah, my favorite joke, back in play.”

“I’ll owe you one, really. Please?”

“I really don’t know why I humor your requests. Cassian would never approve. You’ll need to turn the radar back on.”

She complies and waits a few minutes. The other ship has already started to drift away from her path, so she resumes manual control and keeps them running alongside each other, though at as far a distance as possible.

“Confirmed. Director Orson Krennic is on board.”

She smiles: a full caught-the-canary smile. “Setting route to follow.”

K-2SO scoffs, “What are you going to do in a fighter? That's a like a cat taking on a rock-lion! A short-tempered, highly weaponized rock-lion!”

“I want to see what he's up to. What's he doing out here? There's nothing in that direction for leagues.”

He says tersely, “There is a 98 percent chance this pot of gold of yours will annihilate you on sight and then where will I be?”

“Come on, K. Perhaps we’ll get some much-needed intel. How often do we cross paths with the Director himself?”

He grumbles but gives in. He doesn’t like the idea of returning to base empty-handed any more than she does.

They follow at a safe distance, weaving around asteroids to stay out of sight. Once clear of the belt, she has to slow down until the shuttle is so far ahead it resembles a star. She can’t figure out its purpose here; it isn’t on patrol, and if it had a destination it would be in hyperspeed, but it’s moving as though it has entered orbit.

K-2SO says, “You're right about one thing. There's nothing there.”

“Clearly.”

“No, I mean there is _nothing there_. Not even empty space. And whatever isn't there is massive. I am still calculating the void, but it's at least the size of a planetoid, probably bigger.”

The monitors ding. An automated voice reads the words now scrolling across the screen: _Low Fuel Warning_.

Jyn curses quietly. They are in the middle of nowhere. If she doesn’t turn around now they won’t make it to the nearest planet’s refueling station before running out completely.

The white speck that is the shuttle keeps sailing forward, its destination still a mystery. So close.

“Setting route to base via fuel stopover,” she sighs.

She returns to the spot as often as she can over the next few months, but she doesn’t see the ship again, and though she made K-2SO mark the spot, she can’t find the void, either.

0 0 0

It’s a thing of glory, really. The galaxy’s greatest achievement. His creation. His legacy.

Half a lifetime of labor, sleepless nights, setbacks and obstructions has led to triumph: a superweapon of which there is no equal. A weapon that can destroy entire cities, entire _planets_ in one blow. All will fall before it. It will raise him to greatness. Every cognizant being in the known worlds will fear it, all will know the name of the man who built it, all will tremble to hear it spoken. Orson Krennic’s Death Star.

He is chomping at the bit to run a test, but the Emperor is being careful; not a whiff of suspicion can cross the minds of the Senate. It is the galaxy’s greatest secret; they are not strong enough yet to lose the Senate’s support and set off a flood of rebel allies. They must keep the upper hand until they are in a position to cement it—with his weapon.

It has been a long race. They are so close. He can be patient. Everything is coming together. He will taste glory soon enough.

Such are the thoughts of Orson Krennic as he settles in at the end of a productive day, his rewards a tumbler of pale brown liquor and some spare time to sketch out a new plan of attack against the rebels, one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [whoever lives for the sake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0ul-BghOAs) [of combating an enemy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPR9PENH0Q) [has an interest in](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKH-rcO6PA8) [the enemy's staying alive.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyx0W5UhJGM)


	6. Chapter 6

Cassian tells the ex-Guardians, "You have to stop. All of it, stop."

Baze says, "Why? We're not hurting anyone. Well, we _are_ , but not anyone we like."

"Missions must be _approved_."

"I got Chirrut's approval."

Chirrut says, "And I got Baze's."

"We got Jyn's approval."

Jyn says, "They did get my approval."

Cassian tells her, "You stay out of this."

Baze says, "And it goes without saying that you approve, so we didn't bother to ask you."

K-2SO says, "No one asked what _I_ thought!"

Cassian crosses his arms and frowns at them. "You can't go on unapproved missions." He says, "That goes for _all of you_."

"I never!" Jyn protests.

"K told me you chased down Krennic's shuttle. And we know you've been going off-course when you're on solo missions."

"This is why we don't ask for your approval," Jyn tells the droid.

"Just follow protocol. It will probably be approved—"

Baze says, "If it will be approved, why bother with the middleman? We'll just go!"

Cassian, harassed, snaps: "FOLLOW PROTOCOL."

With a final threatening look at each of them, he leaves. K-2SO copies him, the effect somewhat diminished by the fact that he doesn't have facial expressions, and follows.

Chirrut and Baze turn to each other. Jyn knows what they're going to decide before they say it: that since they made plans for their current mission before Cassian gave today's orders, the edict isn't yet applicable.

"He can't argue with that," says Chirrut.

"Load up," says Baze.

Chirrut asks Jyn, "Since when do you _never_ break protocol?"

"Since just now when he said not to," she says easily. "Need help loading?"

They heft crates and bags and begin walking toward the cruiser.

"So how long have you been stalking your husband?"

"Only a few months, and don't call him..."

0 0 0

A string of losses leaves the Alliance reeling. The Empire is behind every corner, it seems: torturing their spies, catching their supply ships, and destroying their safe havens. Fifty deaths in a month lead to endless, fruitless council meetings.

"Krennic is behind this," Jyn swears. "Every single part. It reeks of him."

They haven't been able to get anywhere near the Director since the failure at the cantina. He is difficult to locate and almost impossible to track.

Bail Organa says, "Try another tack, then. Take a page out of his book: go after those he cares for. What about family?"

Jyn shakes her head. "His parents are dead. He was an only child."

Wedge says, "Too bad he already wants to murder his wife, otherwise we could hold her hostage."

"Who are his friends? Can we find out?"

They send out queries through the spy network. Surely he has a vulnerability in this: a mentor, a confidante. He might have long-standing friendships with schoolmates, as he once did with Galen Erso. Hundreds of the Coruscant set attended his wedding.

The replies dash their hopes.

> _He doesn't have close relationships of any kind. People are disposable. They exist to serve a function: serve or labor._
> 
> _Bastard doesn't seek anyone's counsel but his own._
> 
> _I've never seen him do anything but work._

Merrick shakes his head. "Not a single friend? How is it even possible?"

A pilot says, "Not even any sycophants trying to get in good with the boss. I guess I have to give his staff credit for having a bit more brains than I thought."

"What now? Plan B, anyone?"

"Jyn knows him best. Sergeant Erso, what do you advise?"

"’I'm coming up empty."

"Where does he live? Can we get someone into his household?"

"No; says here it's all droids."

Jyn looks around at the faces she has come to cherish. Merrick's words have sparked a war in her. While the others argue, she mentally battles an illogical surge of pity.

_Pity! For that monster!_

_He has no one. What would I do without the team, everyone at the base? People to laugh with, to call me back to myself, who stick by me, who need me too, who make me want to make this a good world if only for their sake. I have so many. He has none._

_He made his bed. He chose it. He wanted it._

_When you don't care about anyone you care about very little of anything at all. I know that wasteland, I've been there._

_I didn't turn into a mass-murdering sociopath! There's no excuse!_

_Course not. It's pity, not sympathy. It's—_

_He might have been different._

0 0 0

The room is dark except for a glow that comes from bulbs running like veins through the ceiling. All the meager light catches in the white cape of the man standing in the center. The pair of black-armored soldiers behind him are virtually invisible.

"Tell me what I want to know and the pain will stop. It's so _easy_ to make the pain stop. All you must do is tell me one thing. Just… one." He leans forward. "Where is the rebel base?"

The bound figure in the chair breathes hard and glares at his interrogator. His shirt is soaked with sweat and blood. He is silent, but not for long.

The sounds that come from the room cannot be described as words. They last half an hour before the man in white opens the locked door and says to the guards outside, "Next."

0 0 0

Jyn tells Baze, "Stand right there, please."

He obliges, patiently eating his tip-yip kebab while she uses his bulk to shield the fact that she is adding fangs and slit eyes to a propaganda poster of Director Krennic.

The morning is almost as lovely as her wedding day; the team wanders through the upper markets of Coruscant, waiting for Cassian to finish a mission. K-2SO and Chirrut are somewhere ahead. Baze waves a hand toward a plaza between a few government buildings. "What are all those flags?"

"Major players," she tells him, pointing out the Royal House of Alderaan and the black-and-white banner of the House of Krennic.

"Seems to me," he says, chewing thoughtfully, "there's improvements that might be made."

She follows his line of thinking and grins. "I accept your challenge."

The flagpoles are taller than they looked from below and far more slippery than the pole pines around the temple that she's been practicing on, but with some resin on her gloves and a pair of rubber-soled boots she manages to make it all the way to the top. From this vantage she can see Cassian approaching; he's still a few blocks and bridges away, but she would recognize his walk from a greater distance than this. She crosses her legs around the pole and slides down.

The others are grouped by the cruiser docked one block away. Chirrut has successfully picked a friendly fight with the pilot of the ship in the bay next to theirs. An unknown droid referees while Baze and a small group make bets. Jyn joins them as Cassian jogs up.

The captain is in a good mood; often he'll be gloomy as a stormcloud when he returns from solo missions. He takes in the scene before him.

Baze calls, "Give us two minutes, boss—we're about to win 500 credits."

"Board or I'm leaving you behind," Cassian says good-naturedly. He nods to Jyn and K-2SO. "I'm going to report to base." He climbs into the cruiser.

The droid looks at Jyn. "So now I only have you to talk to?"

From behind them comes the sound of a _whack_ , immediately followed by uproarious laughter.

She shakes her head but she can't help a smile. "Come on. Let's go home."

-

Arms crossed, Krennic squints up at the flagpole. There, waving in the sunshine in lieu of his standard, is the red strip of cloth that is his wife's shout of triumph.

"It's been there for four days, sir. No one knew what it was."

Krennic looks over at his guard squadron. He shakes his head. "Alright, get that down and replace my standard. Hurry up; the Senate meeting is starting."

0 0 0

The anniversary of her father’s death arrives and awakens the old grief and longing.

Mon Mothma has been good to her word: Jyn is given access to any record the Alliance possesses of Galen’s movements toward the end of his life. When she is not running missions or planning them or training for them, Jyn searches for her father. She gets nowhere. Despite the fact that the Alliance has more resources at their disposal than she has ever had, the facts of Galen's death remain locked away in hidden vaults, if anything of it was recorded at all.

She says, "I just want to know how he died and why. I just want to lay it to rest. Get my answers and move on."

Cassian tells her, "It may be better this way. Some things are better left unknown."

She shakes her head. "I have to know."

0 0 0

The top of the temple reminds her of Lah'mu. She sits on one of the highest platforms and watches the sunset, and it's almost like being back on the cliffs she grew up climbing. The clouds are golden, pink, lavender; the sinking sun is neon orange.

Footsteps within the stairwell herald the arrival of Cassian. He steps out onto the platform and looks at the scrolls and datapads strewn around her.

"Ah. Him again."

She shakes her head, not looking away from the horizon. "How could my father ever consider him a friend? I'm trying to understand it but I don't think I ever will."

"Who says you have to?"

"There must have been something. My father must have seen something there, something worth befriending."

"Or he was manipulated and deluded. No, don't look like that—your father wasn't infallible, Jyn."

"He was a good man."

"Yes, and brilliant and kind and probably rather naïve, and Krennic saw easy prey when he looked at him: a mind he could trick and use for his own evil ends."

"You're probably right," Jyn says, though there is a note in her voice that says she is not wholly convinced. "They were _friends_ , Cas. I'm sure most of it was a lie. But be it ever so small there was a true friendship there once. I think my father must have known something of what Krennic really was and decided to extend a hand to him regardless. Maybe he thought—you must remember, all those years ago… maybe he thought there was still hope. That he could reroute the storm. My father was a dreamer, all inventors have to be dreamers, but he was realistic too. He must have thought it was possible."

"That would be a credit to him. Too bad he didn't succeed." Cassian can't keep all the bitterness out of his voice.

She says, "I remember them laughing together. For all his scheming, Krennic was sincere, maybe even more than my father was. He saved our lives once. Isn't it ironic?" She frowns at the glowing sun, now cut in half by the horizon. "How could a man have such capacity for benevolence and friendship, then turn around and kill millions of people without hesitating? Where was the disconnect? When did he lose his soul?"

"I thought you were trying to understand your father. Who are we discussing?"

"Krennic could have been so much more and he chose to be this. He could have done so much good and he chose to do _this!_ "

"Don't chase this storm," he tells her. "You think you can figure him out, it'll give you the key to fixing him? You can't reroute his path any more than your father could. We're _here_ , Jyn. We're in this hell and changing the mind of one man isn't going to undo it. Especially not that man."

"I'm only trying to make some sense of—of everything! Of this war, of why I'm here, of all the things that made me into whoever I am today."

"Well, I think you're wrong, on both counts. Your father encouraged you to marry that monster. If he was really as good as you say, and if he'd had any inkling of who Krennic truly was at heart, he'd have taken you as far across the galaxy as he could get. _You_ certainly saw Krennic for who he really is." Cassian recalls himself and softens. "I know this isn't what you want. Always fighting, never gaining ground. Bound to a man you despise. But the sooner you face facts, the sooner you can move on. No more questions to lose sleep over. Accept it, then fight for something better. That is all we can do." He touches her shoulder. "Supper has started. I'll save you a plate if I don't see you."

He leaves, disappearing down the stairwell as the last glimmer of light disappears behind the horizon.

Jyn sits in the twilight, watching the moon rise. From the archive records and spy reports, she's been able to fill in some of the lines of the man she married. The figure she has pieced together is one she recognizes. A monster, yes, but also—a survivor. A fighter. Someone who has hacked their way through life with nothing but their brain and bare hands.

What's more, despite her questions to Cassian, there are parts she does understand. Lacking a conscience is no excuse for the things Krennic has done and been willing to do; but she understands. She isn't so far from her life of solitude that she doesn't remember moments she turned nearly feral, when there wasn't a welcome for her in all the galaxy, when the only reason she saw another morning was because she was willing to claw her way over the backs of others just to get a lungful of air. How many times has she come a hair's breadth from turning into a monster herself, only to be rescued by a tug in her heart, by the ever-present knowledge that her parents would have starved first? And so she starved and stayed human.

Who might he have been if he'd had Galen for a father? Who might she have been if she hadn't?

Frustrated, she shoves the papers aside and drops her head into her hands, no closer to answers than before.

0 0 0

They are picking their way through the wetlands carrying the reapings of a successful artillery trade when a call from the starship alerts them that an Imperial ship in distress is landing on the other side of the marsh.

Jyn scrambles up a mangrove tree and peers through her binoculars. The shuttle is white and somewhat triangular in appearance. It makes a perfect landing, even taking account for its watery landing spot. It disrupts a flock of ibises but nothing in the shuttle stirs.

Baze is in the tree next to hers. "It looks perfectly fine. Think they're bluffing?"

K-2SO, watching from below, calls, "Maybe they ran out of fuel."

" _Buckle up, buttercup_ ," Wedge tells Jyn through her headset. " _We just confirmed that's your favorite person's personal shuttle_."

"He's on board?"

" _One assumes_."

"What's our mission?"

" _Still in development. Give base a minute, I've got the general on this one, he's gonna cook up something good._ "

"If it's an assassination mission, this one is mine," she tells Cassian, who is climbing up the mangrove below her. He grunts.

Across the water comes a metallic hum. Jyn watches the rear bay door slowly slide open. Two figures in Imperial green appear. They pause at the sight of the water.

"What are they doing?" calls Chirrut.

"Looks like they're arguing about who has to get his feet wet."

"Sissies," mutters Baze. "Wish I could broadcast this. These are the wimps who have half the galaxy running scared. I tell you what."

After a while the pair seems to resign themselves and they wade gingerly through the water. They start gesturing at a spot on the underbelly of the ship.

Jyn's eyes are locked on the bay door. It is still open, but no one else has emerged. Nothing can be seen of the interior.

The call from base comes through: their task is to disable the sonar board. The last thing the rebels need is the Empire unearthing the smuggling operations base here.

Jyn is disappointed. Cassian asks her what she expected. There is little chance the council is going to approve another assassination attempt on Krennic without involving at least four rebel squadrons and running simulations until every potential problem is eliminated.

"What do you have in mind for this, then?"

Cassian grins. He holds up a bullet-shaped capsule. It's perhaps three times longer than a regular shell, but no wider, and blunt at the top.

Jyn purses her mouth. "That's a good plan."

He looks at her meaningfully.

She rolls her eyes. "Very well. You can have this one."

"Why, thank you, Jyn. I'm sure it's nothing to do with the fact that I'm an expert marksman, _purely_ a generous move on your part—"

"Pride goes before the fall out of a tree, Cassian Andor."

He winks at her and loads the capsule in his blaster. She fishes through her pack to hand him the attachments that give him sniper capabilities and they set up the rifle on the mass of mangrove branches. Cassian looks through the scope and adjusts the placement slightly. His finger tightens on the trigger.

"Wait!" says Jyn. She fishes through her open pack and tugs out a short red ribbon.

"Stars, what do you plan to do with that?"

"It'll just fit inside the capsule if I ball it up very small, just so…"

He gives her a long-suffering look, but he humors her.

The capsule tears through the air and lands somewhere inside the shuttle. The team waits, binoculars pressed to three sets of eyes. Chirrut says, "Is it working?"

Baze pronounces the capsule a dud. "Better try another, to be safe."

"The supplier said it could take a few minutes."

"Still, wouldn't hurt to try another, to be safe."

"Look!" says Jyn.

A dark shine is spreading across the walls and floor of the shuttle. A man in green appears within the bay entry and bends down to touch it. The shine spreads up his arm, wrapping around it like a sleeve, all the way up to his neck and head. He staggers, clawing at his face.

"Nice," says Baze.

"Now is our chance," Jyn tells Cassian.

"Board disabled and then some. They're sitting ducks," Cassian tells the starship.

" _They called for reinforcements before they even landed_ ," Wedge replies. " _We don't know how many are on the way and we aren't risking a firefight. Mission complete. Let's get out of here._ "

-

The ensigns are vaguely concerned the Director is going to have an apoplexy. They wouldn't mind it happening, of course, but it will be beastly to have to report it.

"How is she _here?_ " he screams at the troopers on board before ordering them outside to scour the area for the rebels, cursing the fact that he can't set fire to the marsh.

-

Cassian says, "What are you doing?"

Jyn, back at her perch in the mangrove, says, "I want to see what he does."

"What he does? What in the galaxy are you talking about?"

"I've made my move; what's he going to do?"

"He's going to kill you. Come on! You can watch it play out from the ship bridge." He grabs her arm and hauls her out.

0 0 0

The Death Star is passing a planet system that boasts a red sun; pink light is thrown into the corridor. Tarkin says, "I've received word of your efforts against the rebels."

"Yes, they've been a thorn in our side for some time now," replies the Director. "I'm going to extinguish every last one of them."

Tarkin's voice is clipped. "That isn't your assignment. If they are proving this troublesome, the Admiral should be handling it. As for you, get back on task, or I won't be only one hearing about your present priorities."

Blazing eyes meet contemptuous gray ones, but there is nothing Krennic can do but acquiesce.

-

Jyn, pacing across the concrete, says, "This wasn't him, the last two attacks weren't him! It's been an entire month! Something has happened."

Her team, in various states of repose on the crates around the training circle, answer:

"Maybe he got fired."

"Maybe he died."

"Good riddance."

She says, "We're going to get his attention."

Cassian says, "Seven hells, Jyn. Can't we let sleeping dogs lie?"

"You certainly can. That's not what _I_ was brought on to do."

All of them sigh.

-

"Sir," says the communications controller. "We've intercepted a rebel supply ship."

"Give me good news, Rama."

"Only the pilot was aboard, and she's expired—had a capsule on her—but we were able to get the drop site coordinates."

"And?"

"Abandoned planet, sir. Empty for decades now. No sign of inhabitation, rebel or otherwise. It appears to be used solely as an exchange spot."

"They'll be expecting a shipment, then."

"Shall we send in a unit, sir?"

Krennic glances down the corridor to where Tarkin is speaking with two colonels.

"No," he says. "I have something else in mind."

-

There is no ship in the drop hangar. They approach the bunker cautiously.

"No sign of Mavvi," Jyn murmurs.

It is autumn on this planet; leaves crunch beneath their feet. A cold wind sweeps through the clearing and climbs inside their coats and turns their ears and noses red. They fan out around the bunker entrance, but there are no signs of danger; the carpet of leaves have not been disturbed for days. They enter the code and the door slides open.

Within, all is silent and still. K-2SO analyzes the levels of carbon dioxide and oxygen and declares the hangar empty of any multitude of breathing beings. They step inside.

Brown leaves rattle across the floor, swept further into the hangar by the wind outside. They turn on their head lamps, blasters at ready. K-2SO, under orders to locate the missing pilot, marches toward the back of the space. Chirrut says, "Something is rotting."

A massive banquet table is set up in the center of the hangar. The team's sweeping lights catch on a mountain of food: enough to feed the entire force on Yavin IV thrice over.

Baze steps forward to inspect the spread more closely. "It's all cooked."

Jyn sees an insignia-rimmed platter and realizes: "It's my wedding banquet. It's meant to be, rather."

"Our food isn't that posh," says Cassian, pushing past her.

"They reshaped it," says Baze. He is examining a mold-covered roasted firebird. He pokes at it with a fork and the head topples off. "This is made of bread… or what was once bread."

Jyn stands too close to a jogan-fruit pie and gags. "There are fumes coming off of this."

"Don't touch anything. It's all layered with poison," Cassian tells them. He holds up a test strip from the kit he always carries; it is entirely black.

Chirrut says, "It would seem Krennic shares Jyn's flair for pranks."

"Why didn't he have Stormtroopers waiting?" wonders Baze, flipping a fried scalefish into a punch bowl with his knife and watching the liquid fizz and turn brown.

Jyn says, "For the same reason he's gone silent."

Cassian nods. "Someone's clipping his wings."

"That makes no sense. Why would he go to all the trouble to pull off something as elaborate as this if he's not even waiting to attack us?"

"It's a statement. He knows where we are. He knows where we'll be."

K-2SO rejoins them. "Mavvi is not here. There is no sign she ever was."

"Let's go. We need to alert the Council. Looks like we'll be tightening our belts for a bit," says Cassian.

He nudges Jyn as they walk out. "What has you looking so pleased?"

She repeats his words back to him. "Someone is clipping his wings." An eager light burns in her eyes. "Now is our time to strike."

0 0 0

The only thing she knows he cares about is kyber. Kyber it is.

-

He watches the monitor with arms crossed over his chest.

The flotilla of warships that store the unprocessed crystals are docked on a moon not far from the Death Star. Somehow the rebels have found it; they've been scurrying around for a while now, dodging the Stormtroopers posted on the moon and trying to break into the storage bays. It has been at least a quarter hour since they were noticed and no telling how long before that. So far they've managed to get one of the storage units open and have a chain of hands passing bags of kyber into the loading bays of three cruisers. Krennic isn't particularly concerned; a well-armed Star Destroyer is on its way to wipe them out permanently.

From the other end of the fleet, a fourth cruiser takes off. A squadron of white helmets appear at the open storage bay and start firing at the chain of rebels, which scatters. The rebels flee to their ships.

Krennic smirks. "Oh, Jyn, you can do better than this."

Without warning the screen turns orange, then the feed goes dead. Another monitor shows them what the first cannot: a massive explosion, a fireball half the size of a warship, erupting out of the belly of the warship at the end of the row from where the fourth cruiser just took off.

The Death Star communications crew watches gape-mouthed as all seven warships collapse into each other like dominoes, exploding one after another in enormous, red-hot clouds of fire.

-

Jyn flies away laughing.

0 0 0

The crew pretends to perform their assigned tasks whilst discreetly watching the showdown and placing bets on the outcome.

The Director is incensed. "You told me you would have these plans approved by the council. I am answerable to the Emperor if the upcoming deadline is not met, and your lack of action has put development at a _standstill_."

Tarkin is cool and condescending. "My apologies. I must have gotten sidetracked by tasks that were not of immediate concern." He turns his attention back to the command window. Krennic, choking with rage, storms away with his guards in tow.

Behind them, money changes hands.

-

In the workshop in his chambers, Krennic puts the careful final touches on a lifesize wood figure of the Grand Moff. He carries it to the shooting range and sets it up in the target bay.

Then he shoots it to pieces, until nothing is left but splinters.

0 0 0

Jyn asks Wedge, "Do we know someone who can hack into the Imperial broadcast next week?"

"Perhaps. The equipment would be at the Dantooine base. Why? You want to scramble the transmission? They'll just rebroadcast it later."

"No, they can air it as planned." She grins. "I'm in the mood to make a speech."

-

The gathering hall is full; everyone on the Destroyer is required to report for the broadcast viewing, with the nighttime droid crew running things for an hour. The higher level officers stand at the head of the room, closest to the enormous screen; neat rows of white-helmeted troops fill the rest of the hall.

The man on the screen begins speaking, but it is not the Grand Moff's familiar rasp that leaves his mouth. The voice is deep and middle-aged, and the words don't match the lips. The voice says:

"I dare all of you to find a stupider being than me in the entire galaxy. No one can do it. I am the stupidest. There is no match for my stupidity. I'm as dumb as a lamppost. I lick rocks. I think asteroid worms were my parents. Try to find anyone stupider. No one can. No one can! You'll see."

The camera cuts to a platform, where a line of the Empire's most powerful leaders stand shoulder to shoulder. Their expressions are neutral; evidently those running the broadcast are not yet aware they have been hacked.

Tarkin leaves the podium; the Grand Admiral takes his place. Again, the wrong voice leaves her mouth: this time, a young woman's. Intelligence will run diagnostics on it later but there is one person present who does not need them to tell him who it is.

"Is it really too much to ask to have armor that's even remotely comfortable? I can hardly move in all this. I am _so tired_ just from having to carry around half my body weight in plastic and metal all day. We have advanced technology that can make our ships move at lightspeed and we still don't have cloth armor? Is this a horrible joke? What did I do to deserve this? Why me?"

Above the speakers' heads, flags whip in the wind. A looming figure in black steps forward. Darth Vader's voice already sounds electronic, but even the most tone deaf viewer can tell this is the voice of a droid.

"I will now list all the colors I like. Black. Red. Gray. Charcoal. Ebony. Onyx. Carbon. Blood. Steel. Oil. Fog. Jet. Fire. Iron. Smoke. Gunmetal. Lava. Noir—"

The image cuts out and the screen turns white, accompanied by a high frequency ringing.

Krennic goes to the nearest supply room and shuts the door so that no one can hear him laughing.

-

Cassian finds the hack squad in the barracks. They stifle their laughter as he approaches; his expression doesn't bode well for one of them. He nods toward the door and they stand to depart.

As Baze files past, the captain says: "I thought _you_ of all people had some dignity."

Baze is still chuckling. "I haven't had that much fun in ten years."

"And you," Cassian tells an eagerly approaching droid, who ducks his head and scurries out behind the others.

Jyn is still seated, waiting.

He throws his arms out. "Jyn! Pranks! We've talked about this!"

"It wasn't a prank!"

He says swiftly, "If it wasn't a prank it was a mission, and all missions have to be approved by the council."

"When did you become such a stickler for the rules, Cas?" Jyn is annoyed. He's a rebel, isn't he?

He looks frustrated, as though she ought to already understand this. "I want the council to respect me. I _need_ them to respect me. If they respect me they give me the important missions—the ones that matter, that I can be proud of."

Jyn stares at him, the pieces falling into place. "How long have you been working the assassination missions on your own?"

He shakes his head.

She says, "You don't have to shield us. You shouldn't."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"We should be out there doing this too! We want to be a part of this fight!"

Sadness sweeps over his face. "The first time you kill a child, Jyn... something inside you twists, and it can never be untwisted. I'm already past repair."

Tears prick her eyes. "You shouldn't have to carry this weight on your own."

"It will only weigh heavier on me if you share it." He regains his composure and gestures toward the equipment on the floor. "And no more of this, I beg you. Deal?"

She shrugs reluctantly but nods. He turns to go.

From behind him, she says, "You're just upset that I didn't ask you to be Vader."

He make a _pfft_ noise. "The Emperor or bust." He grins at her over his shoulder and vanishes through the door.

0 0 0

Six rebel inmates are stolen out of a prison camp. The operation is so swift and silent that the loss isn't noticed for hours.

"There isn't a ribbon, sir," the officers report.

"Of course there isn't. She didn't do this."

They look doubtful. "How can you be sure?"

"What happened here was cut and dried. This was a mission with a singular aim: efficiency. It did what it was intended to do without any extraneous details."

At their perplexed expressions, he says, "I'm not angry enough."

"Then who was it, sir?"

"How should I know?"

"What… what should we do?"

"Figure out who is responsible, of course, you nitwits! Do you expect her to always do your work for you?" He strides out of the room as the ensigns exchange baffled looks.

0 0 0

Jyn sits on the broad stone balustrade, enjoying the warm night wind in her hair. Twenty stories up and not a flash of vertigo: she's proud of that. She relaxes against the wall at her back, taking in the hum of activity and lights as the city, having settled into the evening, rushes through it.

A huge Imperial banner hangs from a skyscraper across the way; it is decorated with the visage of Director Orson Krennic, blown up to one thousand times bigger than life. His expression is stern and focused; his eyes look directly out from the banner, meeting hers with a challenge.

Jyn sits and stares at the poster for a while, then climbs down to set it on fire.

0 0 0

There is a weight in her heart, slow-growing but undeniably present. If she doesn't say the source (aloud or in her mind) she can pretend it is grief.

0 0 0

"Sir?"

The Director blinks and looks at the aide standing to his right.

"Is it approved, sir?"

He returns his gaze to the datapad he holds: the screen shows the face of his wife, staring at something beyond the boundaries of her wanted poster. _Jyn Krennic_ tops a string of alternate names, all wanted for crimes against the Empire. The display has been updated to enable 3D and hologram properties but the portrait is unchanged; her eyes are always trained on something in the distance. The bounty has been increased to 100,000 credits.

"Yes," he says, handing back the datapad. "Approved."

0 0 0

She never gets used to failure. The bitterness in her mouth over an Imperial victory, the ache in her heart over another death: it doesn't get easier with time. Some losses are easier to swallow than others; some she fumes over for days; some steal her hope and leave her empty, weary, and disenhearted.

It is in this last mood that she encounters Mon Mothma in the laundry room.

"Don't you ever ask yourself what's the point? The rebels have been fighting longer than I've been alive and nothing's changed; the Empire has only grown stronger. Fighting them... it's like trying to push back a thunderstorm. Why do you stay?"

Mon Mothma looks thoughtful. "Do you believe this was meant to be a good world, Jyn?"

She asks in the tone of one who has given real consideration to the question, so Jyn gives real consideration to her answer.

"Sometimes. When I'm up there. Stars and planets and life in every direction you look, it's overwhelming. Immense and beautiful and wonderful. Other times I think it's a wash. The best thing would be to implode in a black hole, end all of this misery. You?"

"I do believe it is meant to be good. In my deep heart I know it can be. And as long as I know that, something in me will always raise my arms to push back the storm. I can't do anything less."

Jyn climbs to the top of the temple and stares out into the night. She wonders what would have happened if she'd stayed, all those years ago.

Might she have changed him? Taught him goodness, reset his path? All the slaughter and destruction of these last few years, could it have been averted if she had stayed?

Would he have changed her? Skewed her thinking, poisoned her soul?

This is life, she is learning. One makes choices and hopes they have chosen right.

She hopes (desperately, achingly) that she chose right.

0 0 0

They're all there: Cassian and Baze and Chirrut, K-2SO and Wedge and Merrick, Mon Mothma and Melshi and so many more, all the people who have made the base a home and have made the rebels a family. They raise glasses to her and cheer. Amid the happy chaos that follows, she is swept through the room to receive a chorus of well-wishes for a happy Life Day.

Cassian, walking past, leans over to say in her ear: "Not too shabby for replacement parts, eh?"

She catches him by the arm. "I was rather stupid, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, you were." He smiles at her. "You learn a lot in two years, eh?"

"You can say that again."

A shout from the middle of the training circle reaches them. They look over to see that a dance has started up – one of the wild, whirling Kafrene pub dances that take days to recover from, led by Merrick and Pamlo.

"Shall we?" he says.

She grins and grabs his hand.

0 0 0

TIme spent at the penthouse on Coruscant is rare, but it has suddenly become necessary. Production delays mean ruffled feathers need to be soothed and favors need to be called in. Krennic leaves the solitude of space for the lights, bustle, and politicians of the capitol.

He has been without a full Deathtrooper squad for some time now; one is always on assignment to find his troublesome wife and her companions, but he has recalled them for the duration of his stay on the planet. Crowds in Coruscant are far more likely to contain an assassin than aboard a Destroyer. Besides which, he likes the effect of the full formation when making an appearance at society events, such as galas like this one.

"Director Krennic, how nice to see you!"

"Been some time since we've seen you at one of these, Orson."

He is all fluid charisma, as ever. He greets and smiles at and laughs with acquaintances he's almost forgotten about. Unlike him, most of them were born on this planet, born into luxury, born with a name that had already had been established long before they were added to a long line of heritage. None of them need ambition; none of them have anything to prove.

Back at the penthouse, he dismisses his guards and makes his way to his personal suite. His footsteps echo on the marble floors; the noises are lost in the cavernous ceilings. A droid at each doorway says, "Sir." With the exception of his distant squadron, he is the only living being in the entire residence.

There is a huge screen on the building right across from his bedroom window and he smiles to be greeted by his own gargantuan visage when he walks into the room. His smugness vanishes an instant later, when his picture is replaced by a blown up image of his estranged wife's wanted poster, _100,000_ in screaming red. A few moments later a bright advertisement takes her place, followed by an event notice; then his face again, restarting the cycle.

He snaps the curtains shut but the red light shines through the cracks all night long.

0 0 0

The Galactic public cannot be depended on for much, but nothing motivates people like money does. Jyn ought to know.

They go after his reputation. They go after his public standing. Spies provide records of his personal expenses paid using tax credits. They provide records of bribes and favoritism. They make it public, all of it. The Galactic public rewards their faith with outrage.

"Not that I'm objecting, but this seems awfully personal," says Cassian.

"Your point?" says Jyn.

0 0 0

"Load them all," he snarls. "Every defector. Everyone we know or suspect to be in collusion with the traitors. Every last senator. Dodonna. The Organas. And _my wife._ "

He saves the mannequins for special occasions; holograms are much more efficient, especially when it comes to hitting a variety of marks. Each hologram body is a standard female or male prototype, but the faces can be personalized.

Their faces and bodies shift in a continuous stream. He positions himself, aims, fires, reloads. He's in a rhythm, could take down the entire rebel force single-handedly, when Jyn's face appears.

The briefest of pauses. A buzzer goes off. He shoots.

The stream of faces resumes. The shots resume their tempo.

His results at the end are an almost perfect score: 172 over 1.

0 0 0

Jyn enters the session room in a rage. A grave-faced Cassian is right on her heels. Mon Mothma and Merrick, whose heads are bent over a datapad, look up.

"There's a spy in our midst!" Jyn tells them. "We were _careful_. No one knew about this mission but the small force running it. And he knew _exactly_ where we were going to be, he knew exactly what we would do! Someone is feeding him information!"

"What happened?"

Jyn tells a slightly incoherent account of a mission gone wrong. There is nothing particularly unique about it; it is just like dozens of other missions Cassian's team has run: a robbery—Jyn's favorite sort; and a failure—hardly a first. The only points of interest are the mark: a record of the known whereabouts of several defectors to the rebels, and the unexpected presence of six Deathtroopers, who were waiting for them instead of the case. Surely the work of a double agent.

Mon Mothma, looking troubled, says, "Captain Andor, is this your take on the situation as well?"

"Ah—no, ma'am. I believe it was a trap."

"A trap!"

"But I do agree that Krennic anticipated our every move."

The senator is alarmed. "Have we grown that predictable?"

"I don't think so, ma'am. It was a trap for one person."

They both look at Jyn.

Mon Mothma says, "Jyn, I want you to lay low for a while. Just long enough for him to lose interest. Perhaps he'll think you've been killed."

Jyn frowns. "How long is a while?"

-

Jyn is in the training circle with Baze and Chirrut, unaware of the additional eyes observing her.

Cassian says: "She's obsessed. She can't rest unless she's fighting him. Everything she does is tailored to strike at him in some way."

Mon Mothma says: "Theirs is a peculiar relationship. No matter how far from each other they manage to get, they're always connected. Can you imagine? Spending your life tethered to someone you despise? I think these small victories are her way of coping with it."

Cassian says, "This is going to be a very long month."

-

“Sir? You’re sure?”

His voice is low and dangerous. “Is there a reason my orders are being questioned?”

“Well—sir—it’s only that—”

“You’re not supposed to…”

The officers trail off under the fury of his gaze.

A senior officer chimes in, “I thought you said it would be bad publicity, doing this sort of thing.”

“I’m past caring,” Krennic says. “Commence preparations.”

-

They find her on top of the temple, working out a number puzzle in the afternoon sunshine.

All four of them file out and stand in a line in front of her: Cassian, K-2SO, Chirrut, Baze. She squints up at them. "Have I been cleared for a mission?"

Cassian crouches in front of her. "I need to talk to you about Lah'mu."

Once, during her early days with the Alliance, the council had asked her about the kyber miners on Lah'mu. Could they be trusted? Could the planet be used as a rebel stopover? Did they need protection?

She had told them the miners would be a hard sell. They were far more interested in the inner workings of their planet than whatever was happening in the air around it. As for their safety in connection with herself, she had no reason for concern. Krennic had destroyed all trace of her family but he would never touch the miners; Galen had assured her so, when she had asked similar questions. The Director wanted the kyber crystals and the miners were the only ones who knew how to get them.

It was a story carefully told, calculated to keep the rebels away from Lah'mu. No sense in bringing attention where it wasn't needed.

"What you said. What your father said, rather, about the miners' assured safety." Cassian glances over his shoulder to exchange looks with Baze. He takes a long breath. "Evidently Krennic has changed his mind."

For a moment her chest is too tight to speak. "What do you mean?"

"They're dead, Jyn. There was an explosion. He made it look like an accident, but we have spies reporting he's behind it."

The blood leaves her face. "How many?"

He studies the ground. "Everyone."

Her heartbeat rushes in her ears. She scrambles to her feet, nauseous.

"He claimed they were harboring a fugitive. Rebel sympathizers and so forth."

She slams her fist against the wall. "Bullshit. _Bullshit!_ They're innocent, they're families, _children!_ They're peaceful people, they don't even own blasters!" She presses her fists to her forehead. "He did this because of me."

"We'll pay him back in kind, little sister," says Baze.

"Statistically speaking, that's not actually poss—"

" _K_ ," says the group. The droid falls silent.

"We are holding a remembrance ceremony for them tonight," Chirrut says. "Will you help us prepare?"

She follows them to the lake, where candle bases are being melted into the bowls of aged turtle shells and onto the branches of the trees that fringe the beach. Many candle stubs need to be replaced. It seems they are always having these ceremonies.

The sky is clear and dark when they begin. Candlelight flickers over the faces of the attendees; white stars and yellow flames are reflected in the still surface of the lake. The names of the Lah’mu dead are read; bowls are placed on the water; remembrance songs are sung.

Jyn looks at her team, who didn't want her to hear the news from anyone but them, who didn't want her to be alone when she learned of it, who have kept her busy to keep her from falling into the darkness of Krennic's lashing revenge. She wonders when she will be attending a ceremony like this for them.

Cassian finds her later, curled up as small as she can on the ground next to a fallen tree. He sits beside her and stares out at the dark mirror of water.

She says, "It's my fault, isn't it."

"You did _not do this_."

"I started it. He's so vengeful – If I’d stayed none of this would have happened. They would all be alive. _Stars,_ I should have stayed!"

Cassian looks sadder than she has ever seen him. She knows him well enough by now to know there much he wants to say but he does not have the words. "Come here." He puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. She leans into his shoulder, absorbing the comfort he always offers freely. "Jyn. This is war. People like Krennic – that's why we're fighting. To stop him. To say 'no, we won't take this. We won't accept this'. There's going to be casualties. You and I might be some of them. But we keep pushing back. Yeah?"

The tears she has been fighting finally spill over. "Yeah." She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. "How could he do this, Cas?"

"You're surprised? This is who he is, this is what he does."

She says, "Do you think it's possible for any person to be completely evil? To not have a single shred of goodness in them?"

"I think there's always hope. But I think he's beyond that, Jyn." He frowns the way he does when gearing up to say something she won't like. "You're being kept off active duty for a while longer."

"What? No!" she exclaims. "The month is almost up. I want to be out there, doing something about this!"

"They _want_ you to grieve."

"They want me to not lose my cool and lash out and ruin a mission."

"That too."

"And you agree."

"I want you to grieve, too."

Jyn leans back against the tree trunk so that her neck curves with it, lifting her face to the stars. A streak of white flashes through the distant mesosphere. She traces out the constellations that have been her lifelong companions--reliable and unchanging, fixed in place no matter who else comes or goes, or how many years pass, or how many tragedies and joys occur within their vast expanse. "Can I borrow your jetpack?"

-

She flies higher than usual. Up here, far above where anyone can hear her, the galaxy feels empty of anything but suns and nebulae. No ground to land on. No life but her.

She keeps zooming upward and dropping down, soaring and freefalling, screaming out her rage and grief to the indifferent stars.

When she's spent, she floats there looking at the spread of the sky. It's almost incomprehensible that there is more than all of this; more than she can see, in every direction, and more beyond that. Stars, planets, moons, and starships.

He's out there, somewhere.

And she'll make him pay.

0 0 0

Wedge hammers on the side of the plane with his knuckles. "Council wants to see you."

Jyn lowers the blowtorch. "Did they say why?"

"Nope, just said to get there pronto."

She sighs and takes off her mask.

The procedural room is full of people – it must be as crowded as her first day here – but nonetheless it's easy to locate flowing robes of white.

"I've _been_ laying low," she tells Mon Mothma, who shakes her head.

"There is someone who wants to speak to you." The senator guides her with her hand between her shoulder blades toward the front of the crowd, and she finally sees what everyone else's attention is glued to.

Jyn has never met Saw Gerrera but she's seen his wanted posters; the hologram in the center of the room is unmistakably him. He's a massive man, more machine than human by the looks of it, and he wears an expression that she finds, in a word, unsettling.

"Jyn Erso?" says the hologram. His voice is high and raspy.

"That's me."

He studies her suspiciously. "How can I be sure you are not lying about being Jyn Erso?"

She bristles. "I know myself, and _they_ all know who I am. If you don't believe me, that's your problem."

Many in the room hiss warnings at her, but Saw's face lights up with a smile. "Here is Lyra Erso's child," he declares, and Jyn wonders again how life could be so unfair as to let so many people know her mother this well, except her.

Saw says, "Where is your father Galen?"

"Dead."

"Ah. And you last spoke to him – when?"

She shrugs. "Nine years ago, maybe ten." Ten years and four months. "Shortly before he died."

He studies her, looking her up and down, this way and that. "That is curious," he finally says, "because today I received a message from my old friend Galen. He claims to be at an Imperial facility, building a superweapon for the Empire. What are you hiding, Jyn Erso?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the score to beat is 7.9](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CcSJucsi9I). [keep your head in the game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDsSiaSs9Bo), [that japanese judge is very tough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-2hUmoaPfU).


	7. Chapter 7

Jyn runs full tilt through the hangar; Cassian is right at her heels. They reach the cruiser, where two ex-Guardians of the Whills are cleaning weapons under the supervision of one ex-Imperial droid. Chirrut nudges Baze, who looks up.

Cassian shouts, "Come on, come on, we're going!"

Baze and K-2SO look at each other, then at the newcomers.

"Come _on_ , unless you want to be left behind!"

The others heft their weapons and follow their captain into the ship.

"No supplies?" asks Baze. "No? Alright. This should be fun."

In the cockpit Jyn is a whirlwind of movement, prepping for takeoff. "In in in!" she shouts, punching in the command to raise the entry ramp. Cassian slides into place at the controls.

"Setting route for Eadu."

The engines rev, the ship glides forward, and gravity tugs at the passengers as they hurtle up through the moon's atmosphere and into open space.

Jyn looks back at her teammates. They look at her expectantly. She smiles so wide her face can hardly contain it. "My father is alive."

They take the news far more coolly than she did—very little can surprise the Guardians anymore—but their smiles for her are genuine.

"He's at an Imperial facility."

"A prisoner?"

For a moment the light in her eyes dims, then revives. "Yes."

Cassian glances at her.

She confesses. "I don't know. That was Saw's question too."

Baze, who has leaned back to recline against the ramp, lifts his head. "Gerrera?"

"Yes. He contacted the Alliance, that's why I know my father is alive, because my father contacted Saw first."

"Saw and Galen Erso were acquaintances long ago, back when Jyn's mother was involved in the rebellion. It's easy to track Saw's movements, which is why Galen was able to find him," says Cassian, making an effort to add order to the story.

"My father sent a message to Saw telling him that the Empire is building a weapon, a superweapon. A planet killer. K, remember the empty space we found?"

Chirrut frowns. "Planet killer? Such a thing cannot be possible."

Cassian says, "Somehow Saw knew Jyn is with the Alliance. He contacted her for information about Galen. He isn't convinced Galen is really alive or, if he is, that he hasn't been compromised. He thinks this is an Imperial trap. I don't blame him, frankly."

"My father is no liar."

"Did you see the message?" asks Chirrut.

"Saw wouldn't share it. Said if it's true, he doesn't trust us to actually act on the intel Galen provided. Says we're too soft."

"Zealots," mutters Baze.

"He vetted Jyn for information she doesn't have, she vetted him for information he didn't want to give, she found out that the message was delivered by a cargo pilot based out of the Imperial research facility on Eadu, and here we are."

Baze says, "So if you didn't see the message, how do you know any of this is true?"

"How often does Saw Gerrera contact me personally to ask about my father?"

Chirrut says, "How do you know it was really Saw? Perhaps this is another trap set by your husband."

" _Please_ call him Krennic. What do you expect me to do? There's a chance my father is alive. There are answers out here and I'm not going to keep waiting for them."

They concede her point. The cabin falls silent.

"I don't like this," says the droid, finally given the opportunity to speak. "Would you like to know the chance that everyone is lying?"

Cassian punches a button. "Lightspeed initiating in three…"

0 0 0

It is neither unusual or uncommon for the Director to be in a bad mood, but on days like these even the Deathtroopers keep their heads down.

The security breach had been an unconfirmed rumor until that morning. The Empire never did like owning up to its slip-ups. As a result there had been endless questioning and a long list of new security measures established, though no one was told why. The lower crew members were left to their own assumptions, and for the most part their guesses were correct.

Whispers said that a cruiser at an unknown base had been taken out during the night, but no one knew by whom. By morning all was in place once more, with every pilot in the fleet swearing they had done no such thing. The pilot, or pilots, responsible had been smart enough to disable the cruiser's tracking function, so all those in command knew for certain was where the breach had occurred: Galen Erso's facility.

For Orson Krennic, this fact alone would have been enough to make it a very bad day—but the Grand Moff had rubbed his face in it, springing the news as though speaking the words provided him smug joy. "I'm afraid the recent security breaches have laid bare your inadequacies as a military director," he had said, in two breaths confirming the rumor and informing the Director that if he failed to clean up the mess within twenty-four hours, he will be be stripped of his position as head developer of the superweapon he has spent half a lifetime building.

The Director boards his shuttle at the head of his guards. He is radiating anger; everyone in the cabin stands as far from him as possible without making their intent obvious.

The pilot says, "Setting course for Eadu."

0 0 0

Jyn, curled up next to a window, watches the surrounding galaxy sweep past: thousands of bright, distant stars; planets and nebulas of every color suspended in an expanse of black and blue.

She is roused from a brown study by Baze's voice asking, "So what's the plan? We busting him out?"

"Recon," says Cassian, at the same time that Jyn says, "Rescue."

Chirrut says, "Consider, Jyn. You don't know what your father's role is. He might not want to be rescued."

"Of course he wants to be rescued," she says, as though these same questions have not been churning through her mind for the last hour ( _Why would he work for the Empire? Where has he been all this time? Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he find me? Is he alright? Is he safe? Who is he now?_ ) but been drowned out by the much louder song of joy in her heart. Her father is alive. Her father is _alive_.

"Recon," Cassian says, more firmly.

K-2SO has reclaimed his seat in the cockpit. "Coming up on Eadu," he tells them, right before they drop into a raging storm.

The cruiser is tossed to and fro by violent gusts of wind. They narrowly avoid collisions with sharp, craggy cliffs; the whole planet seems to be made of tornadoes. The roar of the storm is louder than a Star Destroyer's engine. Sheets of rain obscure their vision. Cassian stands in his seat, using his whole body to steer the cruiser, the task requiring his full concentration and every last bit of experience he has acquired in all his years flying. The white-knuckled passengers grip the nearest fixed surface and will the cruiser to land soon.

"There's nowhere to go!" their leader shouts.

They all feel the thud; the cruiser lurches off course, but Cassian manages to steady her. "Did we clip a cliff?" he yells.

"No, something hit the ship."

Jyn is hanging on to a bracing pole next to a window. In the light cast by a flash of lightning, she sees an unnatural spot of white. She holds her breath, waiting for the next flash, hoping it was her imagination.

A streak of lightning reveals a shuttle: white and triangular. Her stomach turns inside out. The shuttle lets off a burst of cannonfire as she watches.

Baze shouts, "It's the Empire! There's a ship, they've got us in their sights!"

Cassian roars, "Hold on!" and the cruiser accelerates.

"At this speed in these conditions, there is a 100% probability of us having a collision within the next three minutes."

"Then I will have to escape in two," Cassian grunts, his eyes charting a course through the storm-filled canyon. They dip and swerve, barely missing rock walls and enemy fire.

Jyn's tight, controlled voice is hardly audible. "They're getting closer."

The rear of the cruiser explodes. Jyn, Baze, and Chirrut are thrown off their feet, tossed through the air and slammed into the walls and floor of the cruiser.

The ship plunges downward.

0 0 0

They watch the rebel cruiser hurtle toward the canyon floor, leaving a thick column of smoke in the air behind it.

The gunner says, "Target in range."

A droid says, "Manifest accessed. Lady Krennic's presence on board confirmed."

Krennic says, "Hold fire."

The Imperial airways through Eadu are fairly clear of wind tunnels or violent weather. The shuttle hovers in place, waiting to see where the rebel cruiser will crash. It lands hard on a plateau halfway up a cliff. Smoke drifts up, but there is no other sign of movement.

"Send a force to board," orders the Director.

0 0 0

They're too dazed and injured to fight back. Jyn hit her head hard when landing, enough to make her briefly black out. Cassian can hardly walk: his leg is broken just below the knee. Baze and Chirrut give it their all, but they are in pain too, and the tumble through the air means their blasters are scattered through what remains of the cruiser. Any weapons that have managed to stay attached to their bodies are quickly seized.

They are led out into the driving rain. The soldiers in black hold blasters to their heads and order them to keep their hands up.

The white shuttle is perched on the plateau too; the great maw of its rear bay entrance looms open. A figure shrouded in white stands just within, out of the rain, but close enough that she can tell he is looking straight at her. She has enough time to think how odd it is that she can see the ice of his eyes despite the gloom and the rain.

A sudden surge of blinding pain through her whole body, then: darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cher,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OS80g1LCsyY) [get in here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P00kfamddrI)


	8. Chapter 8

Her head _hurts_.

It's a moment before her mind clears enough to process her surroundings. The cell is small. White lights thread through the ceiling and reflect dully off the walls. The door in front of her is a massive black block of iron. The floors are metal grate, which makes her wonder if she is in a torture chamber.

She is locked to what is essentially a table stood upright. Heavy iron bars hold her in place, curving over her wrists, her ankles, and around her stomach. She cannot see behind her, but there are no sounds of stirring, no breathing that indicates a second presence. She is alone.

Jyn wants to scream for Cassian and Baze and Chirrut but they cannot possibly hear her through the walls and door. She prefers to not alert anyone she is awake, either.

Instead she takes stock of herself. Her pulse throbs in her head, particularly at an area on her forehead she is willing to bet boasts a massive contusion. Her clothes are slightly damp. She can feel a bruise on her abdomen and smaller ones on her arms. It's impossible to know which ones are thanks to her battering from the cruiser and which from dropping like a stone after being tased.

The shackles aren't tight but despite the gaps her hands are still too large to pull free. The shackle around her left foot is loose. She wriggles her ankle and feels the constraint give way; peering down, she can see that it wasn't even locked. She can almost hear Baze calling Stormtroopers incompetent fools.

She has one free leg. If only that fact could benefit her whatsoever. The crashed cruiser is a heap of metal; they will not be escaping Eadu that way. She remembers hearing Cassian tell K-2SO to fold up and stay out of sight. They still have a man on the outside. She leans her head back, closes her eyes, and thinks.

K-2SO, a loose left foot, and a wrecked cruiser. It's possible Jyn has been in tighter spots than this with fewer commodities, though none come to mind.

Noise from the other side of the door. Her head snaps up.

The chamber door slides open to reveal figures in the corridor beyond. She can see a flash of white in the midst of shining black. Her heart hammers in her chest.

A Deathtrooper enters the cell. The Director steps inside after him, the sight of him blocked by the guard. Another trooper in black follows and types something on a keypad. The door slides shut. The two guards move to the other side of the cell, just outside her line of vision.

Krennic stands before her.

Jyn is so tense that her bruised muscles are screaming. Her heart pounds in her ears and her breath comes fast and shallow; half her concentration is given to hiding it. She braces herself.

His eyes move across her face, taking it in inch by inch. His arms are folded over his chest. His face is neutral except for a small frown of concentration between his brows.

He makes no move to speak, only studies her. After a while her heart slows. Her breathing steadies. She lets her eyes run over him in similar fashion. The cell is quiet; the only noise is a distant motor hum.

She is unsurprised (if dismayed) to see he looks healthy, strong. His cape is pristine white—he probably has a closet full of them, ready to swap out at the slightest presence of dirt. She's forgotten how much taller than her he is.

She's thrown off by the life in his face, in his eyes. She has watched every broadcast speech he's ever given, fruitlessly hunting for weaknesses; she's stared at his propaganda posters, trying to read his mind. She has unintentionally memorized every angle of his face. Here, now, the living body is so different from a copy. His expression doesn't change but even small movements strike her—his blinking eyes, the way his lips unconsciously adjust to hide his thoughts, the way his head shifts on his neck. The way he holds himself, arms crossed. The intelligence in his eyes.

She knows his face better than she did on her wedding day and she can read it better now. She scours it but she doesn't learn anything new. His face is still handsome, still cruel. She watches him study her as she studies him, trying to read beneath the skin. She wonders what he is learning from her.

She married this man. She ran from him. It seems so long ago as to have been a dream. She has hunted him as though chasing a nightmare. Now she is face-to-face with him, only feet from his breathing body, forcibly reminded of his continued existence, to which she is legally bonded.

"Frankly," he says, as though they're resuming a conversation, "I expected more from you. Though your ineptitude was bound to catch up with you sooner or later."

His tone is mild. She realizes: he is in a good mood.

She snaps, "I'm sure my ineptitude is the reason it's taken you ten years to get anywhere near me. Nothing to do with—what does Tarkin call it? Disastrous incompetence?"

"Exactly the words I would use to describe idiots driving a cruiser straight into a cliff, devoid of any safety gear or survival supplies. Stop reading my transmissions."

"Don't critique my mission. Aged a bit, haven't you?"

" _You_ haven't changed. You were a mouthy chit back then and you still are."

"And _you_ were the same pompous, self-important bottom-feeder. Do you require your portraitists add that dead look to your eyes, or is that just chance?"

"If you think that by provoking the brunt of my anger you will spare your friends any measure of pain, you are mistaken. They are being dealt with as we speak."

For a moment she focuses on breathing. In, out. In, out.

In a low, tight voice, she says, "Who is dead?"

"No one. Yet."

The tightness in her ribcage lessens slightly. "They won't tell you anything."

He says dismissively, "They aren't being asked anything."

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"On the other hand, answer my questions, perhaps I'll consider cutting their misery short."

She feels anger burning inside her heart like a raging wildfire. "Why did you kill the miners?"

"I'll ask the questions."

"You won't get a single answer from me," she promises.

He smiles benignly, though she can feel the early threads of irritation. "They all say that." He is forced to crouch slightly so as to be at eye level with her. "We'll start with an easy one. Why are you here?"

In less than a heartbeat she decides to not mention Galen. Saw's message might have been a trap: here is her hunter, after all, waiting like a tiger in the grass. But it might not have been. Krennic's presence on Eadu might be entirely unrelated to her father, wherever he is, whatever he's done. She can't raise suspicions.

"For the sake of... our history… I will give you a chance to answer without coercion. If you prove obstinate, I will be forced to resort to more brutal methods. It is your choice, Jyn."

His eyes confirm the honesty of his words. Her stomach drops.

He has no need of tricks, here. They are no longer out in the open wilds of space, dodging each other, undermining each other, resorting to wits and trickery. He does not need cleverness now. He has her friends (her family, her heart) in torture bays, as her whole soul cries out for their safety. She has been tortured before, but never in the ways she knows he is able and willing to hurt her. Her endurance is untested. She genuinely does not know if she will cave or not, and the realization frightens her more than the anticipation of his methods.

She resorts to bravado. "What are you going to do—hit me? I'm sure you've wanted to for years, what's stopping you?"

"Answer my question."

"What kind of man tortures people solely to inflict pain?"

He gives her a bored look.

" _Why did you kill the miners?_ "

"Traitors are shown no mercy. Surely this isn't a new concept for you."

"They never did anything!"

"I wasn't referring to them."

He is still calm and cool; her blood is boiling. She tries to calm down. She cannot let him have the upper hand. He might not need to resort to mind games, but it the only weapon she has left.

"What have you done to my companions? Where are they?"

"I thought you'd never ask." He waves a hand and the monitor on the wall flicks to life. Screens of the cell blocks flicks past: three chambers, each one containing a solitary figure. Two are strapped to a table similar to the one that binds her; a third dangles by his wrists from chains that hang from the ceiling so that his feet barely touch the grate. His dark head is bowed so that she cannot see his face.

"This one," Krennic indicates Cassian, "will be the last to die."

It takes all her willpower to keep her face neutral.

Krennic walks over to a panel in the wall, his back briefly to her, and when he turns around she can see he has removed his gloves and placed them on a shallow shelf. "Wife though you may be, I have no mercy to extend to you, either. And I have tired of this game."

Her voice is hoarse. "Congratulations, Orson. It's taken you ten years, but you finally get to kill me."

"Hardly. Until recently you weren't worth the bother of the search."

She's grinning. "I hope that thought keeps you warmer at night than I did."

He casts her a look of annoyance, but he's nowhere near cracking.

"Why did you never annul our marriage?"

Surprise flickers in his eyes.

She says, "This is a game to you, isn't it? Running the plays, moving everyone around as you please. You can hurt other people with no consequence to yourself. You can order people to die for you and they won't have the option to refuse. I bet it's intoxicating. You're an addict." She snarls, "You are _everything_ broken and diseased about the Empire. You are _everything_ I am fighting against."

He says, "You've clearly given this a lot of thought."

"Don't you see how pointless it is? You poison everything you touch. Has it made you happy? Even once?"

He shows her a quick, tight smile that is more like a grimace. "Is this how they recruited you? Told you they knew a way you could make the galaxy a better place? And you believed it. I never took you for a gullible child, but I suppose one can only know a person so well."

"How did you become like this? So completely heartless. So ready to destroy others for your own gain."

"You Ersos," he snarls, and she knows a twinge of gladness to know she has finally broken his cool, "always the bleeding hearts of the galaxy. Don't you know how much more good you could have done at my side? What resources do the rebels have? None! But you still can, Jyn. You can still help the galaxy. Just tell me what you know, before this wretched rebellion wreaks even more destruction. Many more will die if you don't, I assure you. We have the means to cut down every living being who is is stupid enough to try to stand in our way."

He is leaning toward her, his face very close, his bare hand gripping the edge of her torture table.

She looks at him, shakes her head. "A universe full of life and there is no one more alone than you in the whole galaxy, Orson Krennic."

Then she brings her free foot in its sturdy boot up and kicks his shin as hard as she can. He stumbles and doubles over in pain, clutching his leg. As he goes down, she swings for his mouth and lands another.

"Lock her down!" he roars. The guards are already in motion. A blaster is pressed to her neck. Her free leg is held fast to the table. The door whisks open and more troopers pour in, until the whole cell is full of white-helmeted soldiers whose blasters are pointed at her.

Krennic wipes his bleeding mouth with his wrist. He looks at her with blazing eyes and she returns his gaze, past caring if he kills her.

He orders, "Post guards in her cell. I want eyes on her at all times."

"Sir," answers the room.

To Jyn, he says, "I'll return when you're in a more rational state of mind. I have other traitors to deal with in the meantime." He turns toward the door and the helmets part for his passage.

"If you kill them, I'll kill you!" she screams after him.

The white helmets follow, until finally only the Deathtroopers are left. The door slides closed. The tumblers turn and fall.

She leans her head back against the cold metal and closes her eyes, chest heaving. Her guards do not make a sound; if she did not know better, she would think they were droids.

 _What are we going to do?_ she mentally asks Cassian.

 _It was a good run,_ says mental Cassian. _Two years without getting caught. We were already on borrowed time._

This isn't the Cassian she needs. _You would never go down without a fight._

 _I don't plan to._ There he is.

_I wish I could tell you goodbye._

Tears well in her closed eyes. She fights the emotion until it passes. She must be in control of herself. She must be cool and calm and ready to fight a storm.

 _This is goodbye,_ she thinks. _This is all I'm going to get. And he's probably having the same imaginary conversation with me._ The thought is both wrenching and warming.

Unbidden, she remembers the checkpoint. She recalls the officer's glazed expression. She remembers flying to freedom when they had believed themselves at the end of the line. Her mother's kyber pendant still rests between her collarbones, hidden under her shirt.

He will destroy all she holds dear.

She doesn't know where he is or when he is coming back. Her heart races. Now or never.

She focuses on the pendant. _Please, please, please._ She opens her eyes and looks at the guard on the left side of the door, next to the keypad.

Calm. Clear. "I need to be released."

The trooper's voice is male and monotone. "You need to be released." He steps forward and unlocks her wrists, ankles, and middle.

"Your armor is mine," she says, wondering if she's pushing her luck.

"My armor is yours."

He pulls off his helmet to reveal a slightly dazed expression. He presses a button that releases the pressure lock, then unbuckles his gear. Underneath he is wearing a black shirt and trousers. She dons his suit as quickly as he sheds it. He is the shorter of the pair and it's still too big, but can't be helped.

The trooper is blinking rapidly. He's waking up. Her heartbeat accelerates. Breathe in, breathe out.

"Your place is there," she tells him, indicating the table.

"My place is here," he repeats, obediently stepping into the space she's just vacated.

She focuses on the pendant. "Lock him up and guard him with your life," Jyn tells the other trooper, who has not yet stirred. She holds her breath.

The second trooper steps forward and kneels to reach the ankle locks.

Jyn pulls the kyber pendant out from under her shirt and holds it against the keypad. She presses the lock release button.

_Please._

The door slides open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [what are your weaknesses?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=isBPQ1GGxck)  
> [i don’t have any,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QdpCJIyyi4) [asshole.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZy8Toq3qyE)


	9. Chapter 9

The corridor outside the cell is a branch off of a large room that seems to be a central control area. It is busy with droids, soldiers, and officers. Jyn's fleeting hope of helping the rest of the team escape dies instantly. There is no way of accessing the passcodes of three cells, let alone entering them and collecting her friends. Her immediate task is to get as far away from the cell block as possible before anyone realizes she is no longer in it.

She walks briskly, staying in main areas that don't require access passes, but sticking to the periphery. She learned a long time ago how to be visible but unnoticed. The helmet is a blessing; no one questions her, or even gives her a second glance.

Once she judges herself out of immediate danger of discovery, she ducks into an empty back hallway to assess her position.

She can either try to save the others or find her father. Her friends are dying, perhaps dead, and she doesn't know where they are or how to find them. Her father has knowledge that might prove crucial for the success of the rebellion as a whole and perhaps change the fate of millions of lives, and she doesn't know where he is or how to find him. She doesn't know where she is, either, if it comes to that. They're all on borrowed time.

The choice isn't easy, but it is obvious. None of them joined the rebellion in order to lengthen their own lives. She needs to know about the superweapon. She needs to find her father.

She needs a map. She needs K-2SO. She punches the wall lightly in frustration. Of everyone to have been left outside, it's the one member of the team she needs here.

She starts walking again, maintaining a posture of confidence while scanning the area for anything that looks like a communications board. The station is large, but it isn't a Star Destroyer. Once she is beyond the central areas, most of the halls are simple silver metal with doors that lead into labs. Everything looks the same; she begins to worry that she is only walking deeper into the maze. The back halls are emptier and emptier and she begins to feel conspicuous in her soldier's garb. She has a blaster, but it is a hollow comfort: to use it would be akin to a summons to be shot at.

She walks down a long hall that crosses others like a spiderweb. The lights in the corridor flicker. The airlock of the door ahead of her releases and it slides closed. Jyn halts. There is no one visible but her.

She backs out of the corridor and walks quickly down another branch. A squadron of Stormtroopers is marching down a crossway. She reels back out of sight and stands pressed against the wall until she hears them pass.

Behind her, another door slides closed. Her heart seizes: he knows.

Jyn darts down the continuation of the hall she had been making her way down, doing her best not to look over her shoulder. She curses the fact that she hid: no one who is authorized to be in the station would have hidden against a wall, and she is certainly visible to the cameras in ceiling above. The black armor is equipped with a compass that she uses it to track her direction. She knows she is still moving away from the central hub, though where she will end up is anyone's guess.

No alarms blare. No squadrons of white armor appear. She wonders what sort of game he's playing now.

He is obviously tracking her via the cameras, so she does her best to dodge them. She heads back to the busier areas and hides herself in the ebb and flow of the station personnel.

The move doesn't work as well as she hoped. Senior staff call to their underlings, rerouting their paths and making way for others. She is conspicuous, a small-framed Deathtrooper with no evident reason for being there. She pictures Krennic in a control room somewhere, giving directions through headsets to the senior staff, moving everyone around like chess pieces, watching her closely as a rock-lion on the hunt. She wonders if he has told anyone who she is. She would hazard not. Victory is sweetest when unassisted.

She doesn't go far into the next hallway she ducks into, just enough to find a ventilation duct. She pries the screen off and climbs inside. She smiles to herself. Old times. She clambers through the tunnel, hoping it will lead her to the fans that pipe in fresh air from the outside.

Instead, it dead ends, or rather, heads south. She peers into the dark ventilation shaft she has crawled to. There is no way to gauge its depth and she isn't wearing the gear that would allow her to climb down it. She turns back and exits at the next screen she finds.

A large squad of Stormtroopers passes her and she falls in behind them, jogging in step. She is playing with fire, but she also knows the last thing Krennic is looking right now is at his own soldiers. This trick sees her through a few busy corridors, none of which seem to be filled with anything but white helmets and scientists. No maps.

After a while she drops off and heads down a new hallway. This one is far emptier than any of the others she has traversed, and she makes her way down its twisting length for some time, wondering how she is supposed to access a control panel in a station as densely-manned as this. She turns left at the next fork.

Behind her, the airlock whooshes and a door slides shut. Jyn curses and starts running. How did he know where to find her?

She comes around a bend and there he is.

Or, rather, there is a hologram of him, deceptively white and, as she draws closer, nowhere near life-size. The hologram base is built into the floor. He is facing her, waiting.

She stops a few metres away. He says, "You can't possibly hope to get out of here alive."

"I think I'm doing alright." Jyn glances over her shoulder. "Are there soldiers waiting for me around the next corner?"

"No one knows where you are," he says, "except me."

She waits, rigid.

"Oddly enough, I'm enjoying myself, and though you won't admit it, I'd wager you are as well. So what do you say? Shall we up the stakes?"

She watches him distrustfully.

"If you manage to get out of here, I'll spare your three companions."

Her eyes widen.

"And I'll release you, too, in every sense of the word. I won't chase you, and—not that it will make much of a difference in either of our lives, but—I'll also have our marriage annulled."

She thinks of the weight in her heart, of the knowledge stifled and shoved to the back of her mind, and thinks that yes, it will make a difference. She runs over his words: _In either of our lives_. Her stomach twists, probably from anticipation.

She swallows, trying to work some moisture into her dry mouth. "And if I fail?"

"You stay. With me, as my wife, playing all the political games required of you, until you die."

"And the others?"

"The executions move forward as planned."

She turns to stare at the silver window of an unseen lab. "That's hardly motivating, is it? I might as well not even try."

He says slowly, "I didn't realize you were looking for a reason to stay."

"Of course I'm not. I meant the stakes are high. If I risk your game, the consequences are far more severe than if I take my chances on my own."

"The consequences for you, you mean." The hologram shows her a grainy smile. "Looking out for number one, as always, my dear? I always knew you were just as selfish as me."

She can't punch a hologram but she has never wanted to as badly as she does at this moment.

He continues. "On the contrary: you lose your future or you win theirs; I think the scales are beautifully balanced. This is more of a chance than any of you have at present. At least when you lose you can live guilt-free in the knowledge that your friends are already slated to die."

"I have no intention of losing."

"You'll play, then?"

She bites her bottom lip. "How do I know you'll keep your word?

His eyes flash. "I may not fit the bill of what a rebel considers a man of honor, but I keep my word, once given."

"There isn't the remotest chance I'll win. You know exactly where I am, you can have me surrounded in ten seconds."

"I'll give you a head start."

"What's in this for you? Do you get off on watching people run around like rats in a maze?"

"No one but you, darling."

Jyn evaluates her options.

If she surrenders now she will simply be returned to her cell and they will all die tomorrow. If she accepts his challenge it is fairly likely she'll lose. Living the role of his wife is one step up from hell, as far as she is concerned. He'll make her live it, too. He will dress her in silk and drag her to Imperial dinners and make her swear loyalty to the Emperor. He'll demand she put on a smile about it, and she'll have to, or he'll find a way to make her loved ones pay. There will be no respite, no escape, until death.

The station is the size of a town, if questioned she is quite conspicuously not a member of the Imperial force, and there are monitors everywhere that can show her location to anyone who knows to look. But it's a chance.

Dying is easy. Anyone can die. Everyone does. She will eventually.

She squares her shoulders.

"An hour's head start."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Forty-five minutes."

"Ten minutes."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Ten minutes. Clock starts now. Start running, little rat."

She grinds her teeth and starts to stride away.

"Jyn."

She turns to look over her shoulder at him.

"Are you looking for a reason to stay?"

Her lungs constrict. She chokes out, "If I never see you again, I won't be sorry." She jogs down the corridor and turns the first corner she reaches without looking back.

She ducks into the first ventilation shaft she finds, crawls for a few minutes, and then she lies down and rests for the remainder of her head start. He'll expect her to be moving away from this spot as quickly as she can, not stay put. Little does he know she has no idea where to go, and so wherever she is at the moment is of little consequence. Let him search aimlessly for a while.

She does not miss the irony that she is doing the same. Walking up and down corridors, she tries all the doors. When a lab is empty, she crosses through it to the back doors that connect short internal hallways and into another room.

After a while she starts to notice Stormtroopers creeping in everywhere she turns, like ants. They jog down the corridors in pairs. Jyn wonders if her best chance is to hide in the laundry. She tries another door and gets an error buzz.

While debating her next move, she hears footsteps. They are soft and metallic, nothing like the clomping boots of a soldier. She ducks behind a corner and watches the approach of a serving droid.

The droid stands in front of the door Jyn just tried; an embedded laser scans its eye fixtures. The door whooshes open. The droid steps inside and a light-footed Jyn slips in behind it.

"Supper, sir."

A man's voice murmurs thanks. The droid exits through the main door.

Jyn peeks around the column. The lab is empty except for a man in a gray uniform; he is bent over a desk. His head is in constant motion: he appears to be comparing a sketch to a hologram composite. Jyn creeps around the tables, trying to position herself so that he is always facing the opposite direction.

The man straightens and stands. He turns toward the tray the droid left him. Jyn's heart gives one great bound.

"Papa."

Startled, he turns toward her and stares in confusion. She pulls off her helmet.

" _Stardust_."

He hurtles across the room and she doesn't register moving but she meets him halfway and she throws her arms around him and his wrap around her. His face is shining with tears. She can hardly breathe.

He is more gray and haggard than the last time she saw him, but his careworn face, his kind eyes, his comforting presence are unchanged. Sadder, perhaps. But _alive_. Alive and hale and _here_. Tears are welling so fast they fall right out of her eyes.

He smells the same. He feels the same. All the things she missed about him and forgot about him are right here, wrapped in her arms.

He releases her so that he can hand her a handkerchief and wipe his own eyes. He lays a hand gently on her cheek. "My girl. My Jyn, my Jyn. Look at you. This is your face now. You're all grown up. You're so beautiful." She wipes her eyes and wipes again, resenting their intrusion on her vision. He says, "How are you here?"

"Saw got your message. He found me."

Galen frowns. "He wasn't supposed to draw you into this. I wanted you safe."

"He wouldn't tell me the details. What did the message say, Papa? What is this superweapon? That's why I'm here. Saw doesn't trust you, but I—I had to know." The tears, briefly controlled, return. "I can't believe you're alive. I've searched and searched."

"You would never have found me. As you can see, I've been carefully hidden away."

She remembers the soldiers at the house on Lah'mu. "You've been here all this time?" Her heart turns to lead: "This is my fault." She is going to be sick.

"No, no, Jyn."

Her tears are flowing freely, now. "This would never have happened to you if I hadn't run. I didn't think it would affect you, I didn't _think_ —And then you never met me on Lah'mu and there were no messages—I checked the house for years, there was nothing, and I searched the archives and there was nothing and I thought—I was sure you were dead, and there was no hint Krennic was involved, I made _sure_ —"

He wipes her face. "Jyn, listen to me. This isn't your fault. I knew what I was choosing."

She looks up at him in horror. "You have wanted this?" A terrible thought: "You really are one of them."

He glances at the door and lowers his voice. "Never." His eyes are honest. "I am a prisoner here, albeit a valuable one. I build things for the Empire and in exchange—" He cuts off and regards her soberly.

"In exchange? What, Papa?"

"In exchange they trust me. It is the perfect cover. And now I can help the rebellion."

"Why didn't you tell me? You could have sent messages anywhere. I would have found them. I would have rescued you."

He cups her face and smiles sadly. "I have no doubt of it."

Jyn's mind is racing. She is armed, and Krennic is here, and her father knows how to find him. She could end it all today.

"Let's go, Papa. We have to get out of here. There isn't much time."

"I can't, Jyn. I made a deal with him."

She suppresses a spasm of fear. "What do you mean? What kind of deal?"

"That so long as I do this work for him, he won't kill you."

"He's broken his promise. He tries to kill me every day."

"You're still alive," he reminds her.

"Papa, come on, you have to come with me."

"I can't," he says, in his most unmovable tone. He softens at her expression. "Believe me, there is nothing I want more. But I can't."

"Then I'll stay, I'll stay here with you."

He shakes his head. "You have to tell the galaxy about the superweapon. Jyn, I do not exaggerate when I say it can destroy planets. It will annihilate the galaxy. It _must_ be destroyed before it can be used. Now, listen carefully. The Empire has a base on Scarif. The plans for the weapon are stored in the archive there. There is a weakness built into the weapon. The plans will show you its location."

"How do you know all this?"

He looks at her soberly.

"You?" she whispers. "How? How could…"

"Yes, I helped Krennic build his weapon. But I am also the one who built the weakness into it. I cannot leave while they believe me crucial to its development. I have Krennic's trust and an amount of control and knowledge that no spy could ever gain. I cannot risk his doubt. If I leave, he will examine all my work and he will find the weakness. And, I will not leave while my presence here keeps you safe."

"He's lying to you, Papa! He'll kill me and tell you I was the unexpected casualty of an air strike." Her head is spinning. "I don't understand. Why didn't he use you as bait? He could have lured me here years ago."

"I wouldn't let him. I told him I would leave for good."

"You think you can just get up and leave if you want to? They'll never let you."

"Of course not, I know that. But if you die, I stop working."

"He'll never tell you the truth. He'll tell every lie in the book to keep you doing what he wants."

"I have other sources of information than Orson Krennic. And if you die it will be headlines: 'Jyn Krennic killed at last' on every telescreen. And I won't be far behind."

She stares at him, aghast. " _No_."

"What else do I have in this life but you, Jyn? It would not be difficult to say goodbye to a life like mine without the hope of seeing you again. You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I've made." He runs his hands over his eyes. His voice is heavy with guilt and regret. "But if you die and the Death Star still exists, it will be me who destroys it. I will detonate a bomb in its very heart."

"Stop, Papa. Don't talk like that. I'm not going anywhere."

Jyn thinks of all the times she escaped Krennic's clutches by the skin of her teeth, running to freedom with heart pounding and adrenaline surging through her veins. Was it her skill that saved her, or his shallow mercy? How will she manage to escape this place if all along it has been the latter?

Now is not the time to doubt herself. She thinks of their bet and revives. If her could have caught her and kept her, he would have. Her own hands and feet that have saved her so many times before will do so again. They must.

She is going to save everyone.

And now is not the day to kill Krennic, she realizes grimly. If her father won't come with her, she needs the director alive and well to keep his word to Galen. No one else would consider honoring such a promise for an instant. She does not want to imagine what they will do to him if the deal is nullified and he refuses to work.

Her father says, "Did you come here alone?"

She shakes her head. "Krennic caught my team. We have an Imperial droid outside somewhere. He's gone rogue and he's an ally. Can you help me contact him?"

"Imperial? A fighter?"

"A statistician."

Galen lifts his brows in resignation. "Something's better than nothing, I suppose." He types a few numbers on the number pad and a hologram surges up: the head of a man with dark eyes and pilot's goggles strapped over his dark hair.

"Hullo, Galen," says the head. "Anything happening?"

Galen tells Jyn, "This is Bodhi Rook. He's a cargo pilot whom I trust." He tells Bodhi, "I need you to contact an Imperial droid who is no longer on the grid. He's somewhere near Eadu station. He should be wired into the communications access network."

"In a jiffy. What's the name?"

Jyn says, "K-2SO."

"What's the message?"

"Tell him the mouthy one needs a lift home."

Galen says, "And tell him to turn on his homing receptors. Confirm when transmitted."

"Will do, boss." The hologram blinks out of sight.

"Now," Galen tells Jyn, "we need to get you out of here as quickly as possible, before Krennic finds you. I'm surprised he hasn't already been here."

He pushes a thick white disc into the slot. In its center is a white indentation that looks like a button. He scans her eyes to grant her access through the security system. The confirmation from Bodhi comes through. Galen shows Jyn a door at the back of the lab, which opens to an inner hall.

"Go through here until you reach a white door. When you exit it, take the bridge on your right. At every point where two corridors cross and there is a red light in the ceiling, turn left. This will lead you to the outside." He hands her the disc. It fits in the palm of her hand. "When you're outside, press this button. It's a homing device. Your droid will be able to find you wherever you are."

She repeats it all back to him perfectly. She has the superweapon intel and a mental map and an escape plan. The only thing left to do is leave.

"I wish," Galen begins, and shakes his head. He cradles her jaw with one hand, running his thumb over her cheek. "I have so much to tell you."

"I'm going to save you," she promises. "One day soon I'm going to kill him and come back for you."

He presses his lips to her forehead and looks her in the eyes. "I love you, Stardust."

"I love you, Papa."

"Be careful."

She slides the helmet back on before he can see the tears burning her eyes. They embrace tightly, and then her feet are moving, carrying her to the door, away from him.

"Jyn, wait." She turns around. He is holding something small and silver. "You'll need this."

0 0 0

She follows Galen's directions to the letter. No longer wandering and guessing, she moves quickly. No obstacles impede her: Krennic must have lost her. The silver corridors all look the same but she trusts her father. She keeps her head down and keeps moving and hopes fervently that K-2SO is waiting nearby.

The final corridor ends at another white door. Through the small square window shines something that looks remarkably like daylight. Her heart lifts.

She stands in front of the eye scanner. From within the door comes a heavy click of release. She spins the wheel and the door opens. Fresh air blows in.

She sheds the heavy over-armor, not wishing to make herself a shiny, weighted target for whoever might notice her departure. The layer of under-armor is akin to a thick shirt, black and bulletproof. She presses the homing button.

She steps outside, almost running, and comes to an abrupt halt.

The door deposited her in a space that is like a large rectangular tunnel; she is at the opposite end from the tunnel mouth, which opens to nothing but empty air. At the far end stands a man in a posture of patient waiting, his white cape billowing around him.

Behind her, the door lock clicks. The noise serves as an odd call to arms, yanking her out of her surprise and caution. A red flush of rage surges out of her heart. She charges down the tunnel.

As she gets closer, he falls into a fighting posture, and she sees that he is holding a small silver cylinder. A bolt of light shoots out of it—yellow and buzzing faintly.

She pulls out the cylinder her father gave her and unsheathes her own saber, green and lethal. Krennic doesn't blink an eye; he looks faintly amused, in fact, as though thinking _of course_. She runs at him.

"Life-ruiner!" she screams.

"Oh, why I am I not surprised—"

The clash of lightsabers as they meet is loud as glass shattering. The echoes off the tunnel walls are swallowed up by another series of blows as the battling duo tries and fails to land a hit. They strike and deflect and parry, both wielding their weapons with skill: the Director is more experienced by far, but Jyn's favorite weapon has always been her fighting baton and she has had two years of training under Cassian to learn how to quickly adjust to untried weaponry.

Their bodies charge forward and pull back, twisting to dodge blows and angling to deliver them. It could almost be a dance, Jyn thinks, if their aim was not bloodshed.

They separate briefly to catch their breath. Jyn glares up at him from across the tunnel, her hands on her knees, panting. Krennic is still standing straight, chest heaving. "You've had him all this time!"

"Surely this isn't news." He registers her expression. "Oh, it is. Well, add it to the list of reasons you hate me. And take solace in the knowledge that you and he will soon have plenty of quality time together."

She gives a cry of rage and lunges forward. His saber meets hers blow for blow.

"You manipulated him—and kidnapped him—and imprisoned him—for _years_! You stole his mind and his life like he was _nothing_!"

"He made a deal." Krennic delivers a blow that launches her backward. Her legs twist; she stumbles and falls a few body-lengths away from him.

She staggers back to her feet. "I'll never believe that was his idea."

He holds his arms out: "I never said it was."

"That's why you married me, isn't it? You didn't need a wife, you needed a way to control my father!"

"No, actually; but it worked out _beautifully_." He's driving forward again, taking advantage of the break in her concentration to back her up nearly to the wall, where he applies brute strength to try to use his saber to try to shove hers downward, toward her throat. It won't work: training sessions have made her arms strong. "Having you as a liaison—" he gives up and swings around in a full arc in an aim for her knees, a move she blocks in the nick of time, "was convenient. Having him—" she swings her saber upward, carrying his, and he recovers by bringing his downward toward her head, "was crucial." She dodges the path of his weapon, ducking out from under his arm. She tries to strike the back of his neck, but he rounds on her and parries.

To an untrained eye they would appear well matched, but she knows she is tiring. She has held her own so far, but barely. He is Imperial-trained and has barely tapped into his skill set. She only needs to incapacitate him, but she hasn't even managed to draw blood yet.

She meets him blow for blow, but he is on the offense, moving too quickly for her to do much more than shield herself. Faster than she knows what is happening, she is backed up to the edge of the tunnel mouth.

His saber sings through the air and hers meets his with a clash. The move throws her off-balance and she tries to correct herself, but she doesn't gauge how close she is to the edge and the next moment her foot is stepping off into empty air. Panic shrieks through her veins and she grabs for the only thing within reach: Krennic.

Her hand clutches the back of his neck and his arm comes around her back to catch her to him. Their lightsabers hum in the air above their heads, forming an X.

Locked together with swords up, everything stops.

Jyn can feel the hard muscle of his chest against hers, can feel the way his lungs are fighting for air. She feels the bumps of his spine under her palm. His hand is hot against her ribcage. His cape, caught in the wind, flutters against her knees.

He is so close that the ocean blue of his eyes is nearly all she can see of him. Despite the wind, she can feel the heat of his rapid breath on her cheek. His eyes are locked on her face. All the oxygen leaves her lungs in a rush.

His face bends closer to hers—the blue eyes are too close, blurring. Her eyes, searching for something in focus, drop to his mouth. She knows the shape of his mouth as well as she knows his eyes; it is usually taut with condescension or annoyance, but now it is slightly slack.

His nose is close enough to graze hers. The way her hand curves around his neck places her fingertips right over the pulse point behind his jaw; it is racing. She lifts her chin infinitesimally. She can feel his breath on her lips.

The tension is sliding out of her shoulders, out of her legs. In contrast, his legs are planted like an oak tree; she can feel the flexed muscle of his quadriceps against hers. His arm around her is still hard and fixed as solid iron, but based on the diminished pressure she can feel from the arm that holds his lightsaber, their fight is not at the forefront of his mind.

Quick as lightning, she lets go of him and pushes off the edge with all the strength she can summon. He shouts and grabs for her, but he only catches the kyber crystal. The cord breaks and she falls backward into the sky with it still dangling from his fingers.

She falls and falls and—

Her body hits the shell of the speeder and the impact knocks all the air out of her.

K-2SO is flying slowly enough that Jyn doesn't bounce right off, and she lays there for a moment, gasping, then rolls over and crawls to the open hatch that will admit her into the craft.

She pushes away the hair whipping into her eyes and looks back at the science station. She can see him: nothing more than a figure now, features too distant to make out, but unquestionably him. The block of white grows smaller and smaller until there is nothing left to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i hate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-T5eYF9WiRI) [your big dumb combat boots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yovUXcmj7P4) [and the way you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ka-S4MpEcw) [read my mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVzvRsl4rEM)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh y’all! i am so sorry for yet another hefty wait between updates. i promise i would much rather be writing this story than all the stuff i had to spend this summer doing (post-bac ain’t for kids, kids). but i am back (for now) and writing up a storm (as fast as possible) and words can’t express how deeply i appreciate your extraordinary patience and enthusiasm (eternally).

Jyn tumbles out of the ship into the arms of General Merrick. “Antoc,” she says, gripping his shoulders and ignoring his questions about what has happened, where are her crewmates, why is she flying an _Imperial speeder_ , “I need to speak to the Council.”

In the darkened interrogation room, with the red and blue lights of maps blinking patterns on her skin, Jyn listens to the assembly debate the news she’s brought them. K-2SO is silent at her shoulder.

“Why should we trust Galen Erso?”

“Our spies have never heard of anything like this planet-killer. Not one report.”

“Of course not! The Empire wouldn’t advertise they were building such a thing. They’d have half the galaxy at their throats the minute the news broke.”

“As if it could be hidden if it were real! A laser the size of a moon! Get real!”

“Even if Krennic has made a weaponized base like the one you describe, he’ll never be able to arm it.”

“With Galen Erso he might.”

“The Empire hasn’t the kyber to fuel such a thing. That much kyber doesn’t exist in the entire galaxy.”

“The Empire _owns_ the galaxy, in case you haven’t noticed, and they don’t take no for an answer.”

“Even the Empire couldn’t hide such a thing as this. Twenty years of work? No one can keep a secret like that stoppered for twenty years, not with the massive amount of labor involved. It would have leaked somehow.”

“Droids built it, you fool. Orson Krennic and Galen Erso did the rest.”

“Galen Erso, whose daughter says we’re supposed to trust him.”

“Galen Erso, whom we _did_ trust.”

“Exactly. And look at him now.”

Jyn slips out of the room under the cover of shadows. They will argue for hours before reaching a decision, and she has a transmission to send.

0 0 0

The lock buzzes approval and the door slides open. The man at the workbench looks up at the sound of boots on metal. A line of black helmets file in and move to the perimeter of the room; a white cape follows them inside. The room’s occupant nods to his visitor.

“I wondered when you might stop by. Your timing is excellent. We have much to review. I’ve managed to stabilize the cabin pressure in the kyber storage locker when the laser is energized—take a look. Any word on the crystals? We’re still a few hundred thousand short.”

"You're in a good mood this morning, Galen. Sleep well? Dream of long-lost loved ones?"

Galen's hands stop as though caught in a tractor beam. Krennic tosses a printout onto the table.

"Interesting list of demands I received recently. From your daughter, no less. How long since you've spoken to her? Almost a decade now, isn't it?"

Galen clears his throat and says hoarsely, “Yes.”

Krennic looks thoughtful. “I’ve given you a long leash, haven’t I, Galen? You’ve enjoyed a pleasant amount of freedom here. Far more than anyone else would have given you.”

“That is true.”

“And why is that? Remind me.”

“I am giving you a superweapon.”

“Giving me,” Krennic snarls. A hologram of the Death Star is floating above the tabletop. He picks up the base and hurls it across the room. "I know you saw her! I know you helped her! What did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her anything."

Krennic says peevishly, "You _know_ I hate liars, Galen. There will be consequences for every lie you tell."

He presses a button on the wall and a few moments later the door opens to reveal a droid. It bows slightly. “Director. How may I serve you?”

“Gather all Erso team scientists.”

“Right away, sir.”

“What are you planning, Krennic? They have nothing to do with my daughter.”

“You may start telling the truth at any time, Galen. No? Very well.”

Five figures are ushered into the room. “Director Krennic!” they exclaim, awed. The Director remains stone-faced.

“What did you tell her? Be specific.”

“I confess. I told her the way out of this place. That’s all. I swear it.”

Krennic indicates the first scientist in the line. "Shoot him."

The death troopers raise their blasters. The scientist’s awe turns to terror, though his screams of protest are quickly silenced. The remaining four are terrified, clutching each other and crying out their pleas of innocence and confusion. Galen’s hands are white-knuckled fists.

“I swear to you, I told her nothing else!”

“Shoot him.”

“No, Krennic, stop—no!”

Galen paces in agitation, running his hands through his hair and breathing hard. He says, "The rebels were remarkably well informed about my whereabouts. Except for the way out, I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. Maybe you have a leak."

“Shoot her.”

“I swear! I swear to you, that's all I said!”

“I _know_ you gave her information! I _know_ that you have conspired with a pilot to send messages to the rebellion! You are liar and a traitor, Galen Erso.”

The two remaining scientists cower together, their eyes pleading. Galen says, “Yes, I am a traitor, Krennic. I wanted to escape this place, to spend my final years with my daughter. I sent a transmission in the hopes someone would help me escape. They had nothing to do with it. Spare them.”

Krennic says, “Shoot them.” The room is momentarily filled with bright red flashes of light.

Galen stares in a stupor at five bodies that just minutes earlier had been the team he spent the majority of his waking hours with. Their blood is still slowly spreading across the while tile floor. “Aren’t you going to kill me too?”

“The value of having access to everything stored in your brain still outweighs my wish to have you executed, though I won’t guarantee that will keep you safe for long. It goes without saying, but I consider all of this a blatant transgression of friendship, Galen.”

"You aren't my friend. _They_ were my friends."

“Apples and oranges,” says Krennic. He tells the Death Troopers, “Lock him in cell 51. I want twenty-four hour surveillance. Don’t re-enter the cell once you’ve installed him. And now,” he says, looking Galen directly in the eyes, “I have some unfinished business with my wife.”

0 0 0

The lead transmission decoder says, “He wants to speak to you.”

They source a neutral feed through a dust planet. Once they are sure the communication isn’t being traced, they push the line through. Krennic’s voice reverberates in the speakers in the wall above the transmission desk. “Well? Do you feel safe now?”

Jyn says, “Where are they? Why haven’t you delivered them?”

“So _impatient_ , Jyn. When will you learn that the trick of diplomacy is tact and patience?”

“And why are we still married?”

“Which question would you like me to answer first? It’s difficult to tell which is the priority.”

“I want my companions back, Krennic. We made a deal. You lost!”

"And you'll get them back—as soon as my stolen shipments of kyber are returned to me."

Murmurs in the room, at this. Jyn, stunned, says, “We’ll do no such thing.”

"Surely you didn't expect me to give up my hard-earned prisoners for nothing in return."

Fury surges through her like electricity. "You gave me your word!"

"I promised I wouldn't kill them. I didn't promise to return them."

The murmurs grow in volume.

The speakers say, “Do you know how much kyber you’ve stolen from me? Of course you do, it’s the kind of thing you would tally, like a kill count on a battlefield. So have I. I want it back, plain and simple. ”

“How stupid do you think us? We destroyed it. Every last unit.”

“Unfortunate, seeing as kyber is the only leverage I’ll accept.”

Jyn closes her eyes. She wets her lips and takes a deep breath. “Take me instead. I surrender to you.”

“You had your chance. I’d prefer something stationary this time.”

Her eyes fly open. “No deal!”

“Ah. Well, in that case, I suppose you’d better prepare three memorial services.”

“ _You gave_ —”

“My word, yes, thank you for the reminder. I’m not going to kill them. No one will even enter their cells. They’ll be able to die of starvation all on their own in a few weeks’ time.”

Jyn tries to stay calm. Across the room, Mon Mothma locks eyes with her. The Senator’s face is neutral; Jyn wonders what she is thinking, and wonders if she ought to have asked the other woman to conduct this call; then, perhaps, Jyn wouldn’t be finding her hands so deftly tied.

“I hate to disturb your pensive silence, but unlike some people, I have places to be and important things to do. Shall we revisit this topic in, say, three days? Perhaps you’ll be able to summon up some kyber by then. Hm? Always a pleasure, dear heart.”

The line fuzzes with static. Jyn covers her face with her hands.

0 0 0

The massive chamber door slides up slowly. Krennic watches the glow of light from the other side increase in brightness. The sweat beading his face is not from the heat of the room. A dark, cloaked figure steps into view. The Director swallows.

Vader strides down the ramp swathed in steam. “Director Krennic.”

“Lord Vader.”

“You seem concerned, Director.”

“No, Lord Vader. That is, I have a great deal on my mind.”

“Yes. You do have a great many things to explain.” Vader steps forward with every item. “The stalled Death Star project. The insufficient kyber stores. The recent security breach. Rebel activity you have incited instead of crushing. How do you answer, Director?”

Tarkin’s name makes it past Krennic’s lips before his throat tightens. His airways cannot seem to take in oxygen; he wonders if the volcanic fumes are affecting him before realizing with a surge of panic that Vader is choking him with his mind. It is a feat he has heard of from other witnesses, who never reported a single instance of one of Vader’s targets surviving. Krennic scrabbles at his throat but his hands only meet his skin and the surrounding air. Black spots enter his vision before he is released and falls to the ground, gasping.

Vader says, “Our disappointment in you grows daily. I expect you not to rest until you can assure the Emperor that Galen Erso has not compromised the Death Star in any way.”

Clutching his throat, Krennic wheezes, “The Emperor? I am to have an audience with the Emperor?” He watches Vader’s fingers twitch and braces himself.

“Do not think I am a man to be tested, Director. The breadth of your work on the Death Star project is the only reason you are still breathing right now. Make no mistake: you are far from indispensable.”

“Understood, Lord Vader.”

The figure in black marches back up the ramp. The door closes, leaving Krennic crouched in lava-lit darkness.

0 0 0

“I’m not going to lie,” says Merrick. “I can’t think of any situation less ideal than the one we’re currently in.”

Jyn, prostrate in one of the mess room chairs, folds her arms over her face. Merrick paces back and forth in front of the two remaining members of their small conference. Mon Mothma says, “ _Did_ you destroy it?”

“Of course not. Do you know how many explosives it would take to destroy that much kyber? We’re already short on ammunition.” Jyn worries her bottom lip.

K-2SO says, “We have stolen a total of 40,584,219 units of kyber from the Empire in the past two and a half years, of which 9,744,367 were destroyed.”

Jyn glances under her arms at the woman in white. “Aren’t you going to take this to the Council?”

Mon Mothma says slowly, “It seems to me this is your decision, Sergeant.”

Jyn drops her arms and lifts her head. “Mine!”

“You are intimately acquainted with every element in play. You’re married to Krennic, who has clearly singled you out as a target. Your team is imprisoned, and you are the one who made—and won—the deal to save them. Your team has also been the main force behind the kyber hauls. In this very unique situation, who would you say is the most appropriate person to make a call on our next move?”

Merrick lifts an eyebrow and coughs politely. “Might I inquire about your willingness to keep this particular topic of interest off the Council’s radar, Senator?”

“The Council has quite enough to keep them busy; and frankly, I do believe Jyn is the person with the most at stake here. The choice ought to be hers.”

Jyn does not, to any degree, want the responsibility of making the decision Mon Mothma is laying at her feet—but even less does she want to relinquish it to the Council. _Missions must be approved_ , says Cassian’s voice in her head.

“I have to think,” she says, and retreats to the top of the temple.

Saving three, at the risk of Krennic killing billions more. How can she justify it?

But saving _them_ , three elite fighters, might mean she is saving those who will bring about the end of the Empire. Krennic is just one man and his path of wreckage is vast; they are _three_. The Empire can’t be stopped by ghosts. The rebellion needs Cassian, needs Baze, needs Chirrut.

Feeding him kyber! The damage he might inflict on the galaxy is unbearable to imagine. How can she take such a risk?

Her heart rears up, reminding her that they are her _family_ ; she pushes it back down. This is a decision to be made without bias, with rational thought and rational reasoning.

She doesn’t sleep all night. In the morning, for better or worse, she starts collecting kyber.

0 0 0

“30 million units.”

“That isn’t what you owe me.”

“Ten million for each safely delivered prisoner. Or you can take nothing.”

Krennic is silent, fist pressed to his mouth, his brow furrowed in thought. The communications room lieutenants and ensigns watch him. He makes his decision quickly. “Have it delivered to the planet Lumix. I’ll send coordinates. And to ensure you aren’t plotting anything, twenty-four hours after receipt of delivery I’ll hold up _my_ end of the bargain on a yet to be disclosed planet.”

“Absolutely not. You’ll hand over my team directly to me, and when I am sure they are well and whole, we will give you the kyber.”

“So that you might detonate it as soon as it leaves your hands? I think not.”

It takes them fifteen full minutes of squabbling to settle on a method and location for the handoff. The ensigns exchange looks; the lieutenants, all hopeful for promotion, keep their expressions neutral and do not let their eyes stray from the DIrector’s face.

The transmission ends. Krennic sends a holo-call to Galen’s engineers. “Prepare for the final installment.”

0 0 0

Through the window Jyn can see the white shuttle approaching from the opposite direction. Merrick’s voice comes in through her headset: “ _There he is. This is it._ ” Wedge’s follows: “ _You ready to party?_ ”

The cruiser starts its descent, followed by the cargo ship and Merrick’s crew in fighters. Their chosen meeting place is on a green planet, covered in thin streams and bamboo forests. There are a few silvergrass fields, the largest of which is their destination.

Across the field, the shuttle touches down as the cruiser does. For a moment all is still.

The bay doors open. The teams on both sides stride down the ramps. They are a good hundred yards away from each other, but it is impossible to miss the man in the white cape.

Both groups line up twenty yards out from their ships. From this this point only three from each side still walk forward, to meet in the middle and hold conference over the terms of their agreement.

They are still thirty yards apart when she can pick out his features. Adrenaline rushes through her at the sight of his face. They stop a few feet from each other.

The planet is cool and mild. There is no breeze. The field is hazy; tiny droplets of condensation have settled on his hair.

“No tricks,” she says. Galen’s safety is at the forefront of her mind.

“No tricks,” he says, expression neutral as he tugs off a black glove.

He holds out his hand. She doesn’t break eye contact as she clasps it. His grip is warm and steady. She drops his hand quickly. “Where are they?”

WIthout turning, he waves an arm. Figures are led out of the distant shuttle door.

“K?”

Beside her, she can hear the droid’s head whirring. “Identification confirmed. It’s them, Jyn.”

Some of the tightness in her shoulders eases. “Are they uninjured?”

“I count two black eyes, a forehead contusion, and what looks like a broken left arm.”

“What?” She grabs her binoculars and zooms in, leaving General Draven to keep an eye on Krennic and his pair of guards. The scope confirms K-2SO’s words: blood is dripping down Cassian’s face and Baze is cradling his arm.

She screams, “What have you done to them?” and launches herself at Krennic. She swings and just grazes the Director’s jaw. A moment later she has her blaster in hand, trying to target his throat. “Jyn!” shouts K-2SO, trying to hold her back.

Faster than lightning, Draven grabs her and holds her by the throat in a steel grip. “Stop _now_ before you get everyone killed!” he yells. Krennic snarls, "Get your hands off my wife!" The guard on Krennic’s left draws on the General; the guard on his right is sighting down both Jyn and K-2SO, his blaster shifting between the two of them almost imperceptibly.

They stand, frozen, blasters to each other’s heads. Krennic glowers at Jyn. “Am I to blame if all of you mongrel rebels are cut from the same cloth? They started it.”

Jyn meets his eyes, hard and gray as gunmetal. She slowly lowers her blaster. Everyone detangles themselves and shifts back into their original positions. She wipes the condensation from her forehead with her arm.

“ _Now_ ,” says Krennic. “Shall we resume?”

She raises an arm. Behind her, the cargo ship creaks as its storage bins are lowered into view.

Jyn can see Imperial uniforms scurrying around their end of the field. They drag a white contraption out of the ship; that will be the scanner, she supposes, the one that lets them determine from a distance whether the bins are loaded with explosives. A handy tool to have.

After a while a whistle blast sounds.

“Tell them to leave it and go.”

Jyn unclips the redlight pen from her belt and flashes it twice. The cargo ship motors are a dull roar as the ship rises back into the sky.

“Bring them forward.” The Director speaks into a small band of black at his wrist. The rest of the Death Troopers squad begins to march the rebel prisoners across the field.

Jyn says, "We're still married, then."

"Don't sound so disappointed."

"You said you would annul—"

"What is it you think I do all day, eat tapas and roll dice at my local cantina? Lately, I’ve been rather busy dealing with rebel activity. I have not had time to attend to it yet."

She doesn’t hide her skepticism. He tells her, "The marital contract must be rescinded in person, and the document is currently stored at my house on Theed."

She scoffs, "And you couldn't have it delivered to you!"

He looks at her, neutral again from eyes to voice. "I shall make it a top priority, once the transfer is complete.”

She meets his eyes. Gunmetal gray and revealing nothing. “Good.”

“I do have something else for you, though.” He gestures to the group still by the shuttle. Two of the ensigns break rank and run across the field toward them, passing the prisoners and their guards.

Merrick’s voice comes through her handset. “There’s movement up here. All well?”

Draven answers on his own handheld, giving him an update and instructions. Jyn turns to wave to her group, indicating that they are to stay put. The ensigns arrive, slightly winded. They are carrying a long, flat box. An ensign says, "For you, Lady Krennic."

Jyn bites down on her lip _hard_ , restraining herself from delivering a lashing reply that will assuredly escalate until everyone present is sprawled on the ground, full of blaster holes. “What is it? A bomb?”

Krennic’s eyes still rest on her. “No. A question. Give me your answer later.” The rebel trio and guards are almost to them.

“I’m going to save my father and I’m going to kill you,” she promises him.

“An admirable goal,” he says. “I wish you luck,” and they part.

0 0 0

They regroup in the infirmary. Cassian, Chirrut, and Baze sit in a line of beds, getting pumped full of fluids. The rest of their crew and most of Merrick’s are gathered around them.

K-2SO says, "I heard them, you know. They called you Lady Krennic."

Baze’s eyebrows shoot up. “Lady Krennic, is it?”

Chirrut says, “It rolls off the tongue beautifully.”

Laren says, “That’s the sort of title you dine for free on.”

Cassian is grinning wide. "Shall we call you Lady Krennic?"

"Only if you want to lose a valuable part of your anatomy." Jyn is relieved to see Cassian smiling. He had been furious on the ship after learning the terms of the trade. She had lost her temper over it, to her later embarrassment, though the sentiments remained true (“You listen to me, Cassian Andor,” she had said, the cost of the kyber at the forefront of her mind too. “I’m not fighting for some vague peaceful future. I’m fighting for right now. For you and him and him. I’ll do what I have to do to save you, right now. And if saving you means we’re one step closer to that peaceful future, more the better!”). He had brooded the rest of the way home, but food in his belly appears to have worked wonders. They have spend the time since their arrival back on Yavin IV bringing each other up to speed.

Now she says, “There is a weakness in the weapon. We have to get the blueprints. They’re stored in the Empire’s archives on Scarif.”

Cassian rubs his face with his hand. “Breaking into a place like that isn’t something you just go _do_. And breaking in is just the first part. Finding the blueprints, getting out of the base and off the planet alive, _and_ in a way that doesn’t raise their suspicions that we have the plans for their super-weapon? Stars, Jyn, it’s—”

“Impossible,” states K-2SO crisply. “0% chance of success.”

“So we make a plan. We’re careful. Precise. Nothing left to chance. But we have to work fast. There’s no telling how close Krennic is to finishing the weapon, and we just handed over a not-insignificant amount of kyber.”

Cassian polls the others. “Alternatives to this plan?”

Wedge makes a thoughtful gesture with his hand. “We can sit back and watch Krennic decimate the galaxy.”

“ _Some_ of us can,” says Chirrut.

Melshi says, “Sounds to me like our only hope is accessing the blueprints. I’m with Jyn. We stand a chance if we’re smart about it. Think through every step. Use every resource at our disposal.”

The group sounds their agreement.

A pause.

Pao says, “So. Who’s going to tell the Council?”

0 0 0

The airlock shishes open to admit Jyn into her bedroom. The room is tiny, hardly larger than a cell, and there is little softness to it—almost everything is made of stone or metal, and it lacks windows—but it allows her some of that precious commodity, privacy.

The box Krennic gave her rests on her bed, forgotten until now. She eyes it as she unbuckles her belt and shrugs off her vest. It is too lightweight to be a bomb, but there is no telling what he might have laced it with. She makes sure her door is sealed tight before tugging off the lid.

Within, carefully folded and wrapped in thin paper, is what looks like a mess of black and white shredded fabric. She pulls it out and realizes it is a dress.

Her breath catches in her throat: it’s stunning. Lovely and layered and fluttering, the white and black coloration masterfully woven into soft ribbons or trembling tassel-ends, with a ruched train that drags on the ground. Her fingers run over the strange embroidery along the neckline and she realizes with a start that the entire thing is made of the strips of her wedding hanfu: half the fabric has been bleached white and the rest dyed black. Nearly the entire hanfu has been discarded; she has one red strip left, and has been saving it for a special occasion.

She knows what the dress means. _Come back._ Or keep fighting until one of them no longer can.

She wonders would have happened if she'd accepted his offer, back in the shining metal halls of Eadu. What might her life become if she had stayed? Would he have swept her back into Coruscant society, torturing her, turned her into silent decoration at his side, a trophy swathed in dresses like this? Or learned from his mistakes and kept her in a cage?

She wonders what his voice would have sounded like saying her name in the dark.

She takes the bodice in both hands and rips.

0 0 0

Darting brown eyes watch the monitors. There is activity in the bay around Krennic’s shuttle. Quick fingers pull up the travel log and confirm that it is being prepared for travel. The worry in the watcher’s eyes escalates to high concern.

He picks up the handheld that connects to a tiny mic hidden in a metal bar adorning an Imperial jacket. The jacket is currently located deep in the Star Destroyer’s prison bay. He taps twice.

It takes a moment to get an answer. “Bodhi.” The voice grunts. “Something is happening?”

“Yes. Director Krennic’s shuttle is deploying to Scarif.”

A long breath out. “For what purpose?” Even over the poor transmission, it is clear that Galen’s voice is hoarse and pained.

“Have they been torturing you again?”

“No matter.”

“It _is_ a matter, it is cruel and unjust and—”

Galen says, “What purpose, Bodhi?”

“It says ‘routine inspection’.”

“It is happening, then. He is examining my work. He will discover everything.”

“What should I do? Blow up the shuttle? Assassinate him? I don’t think I can get that close but I’ll try.”

“No, none of that. What you need to do will be difficult enough without all that.”

“I’ll do it. I can do it. I mean—I think I can. I know exactly what to do, I’ve been practicing in my head. Re-route this, move this there, be in the right place at the right time, don’t think about dying—all that.”

“I am confident that if anyone can do this, you can.”

“Will you be okay without me?”

“I’ll be fine. If you see Jyn… you know what to say.”

“Don’t you think you should come with me? What if they don’t believe me? I don’t think I should just leave you here. Perhaps I should contact the Alliance and have them cut Krennic off at Scarif. After all, I’m just one man, Galen.”

Galen says, "Everything will be fine. Bodhi. It's time to go."

Quick fingers move faster. The Destroyer’s transmissions network is a fluid, near-living thing; its communication pathways connect it from stem to stern like a blood circuit. Bodhi hacks into the shuttle, the dormitories, the droid assignments, and the assignment panel. Then he runs as fast as he can to the departure bay.

He is the only human pilot—the co-pilot is a droid. One down. He sighs in relief, wiping sweat from his forehead, then busies himself with departure prep.

Through the cockpit window he watches the approach of the Director, flanked by his eight guards. The Death Troopers board, followed by Krennic. There are no other passengers.

“Setting course for Scarif.” The shuttle takes off. Bodhi closes his eyes and takes quick breaths in and out. He tries to steady his hands.

Once they are out of range of the Destroyer’s artillery, he hacks into the shuttle. He types in layers of commands, cursing his shaking fingers. No time for a mistake now. First he shuts down the shuttle tracking system, then the communications panel. He can hear Krennic say, “Why aren’t we in hyperspeed?” and works faster.

The droids are next. Fingers fly. The lights of his co-pilot’s eyes go dark. He takes a deep breath. Now or never. He turns around so that he can see the passenger bay.

The Director is seated by a window, staring out. The eight droids disguised as Death Troopers draw their blasters and point them at the man in white.

Relief floods Bodhi’s whole body. He presses the final button.

He forgot about the automated plane announcer. A voice above his head says, “Setting course for Jedha moon.”

Krennic, who has been in a brown study, lifts his head at the announcement and finds himself surrounded by drawn blasters. “What in blazes—?”

Bodhi says, “This is a kidnap. Ah… please remain calm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -[you've had a bit of your own back, as you say.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yh7ryfBzkN8) [have you had enough and will you be reasonable or do you want any more?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=On69qd-7kpc)  
> -[you want me back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEYfo4VWUF0) to [pick up your slippers and put up with your tempers and fetch and carry for you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgJQmn9gtmI)  
> -[i didn't say i wanted you back at all!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jekEAj6SNQs)
> 
> +[hanfu redux](http://eclect-dissect.tumblr.com/post/158497137397/reem-acra-prefall-2017)


	11. Chapter 11

Baze roars in her earpiece, " _Lady Krennic, get your ass on that ship!_ "

"I'm trying!" Jyn climbs up the old maintenance shaft as quickly as she can, struggling for purchase among the bricks—the ladder is long gone. A bag full of Imperial ammunition swings from her shoulder. Beneath her hands the earth trembles, and her eyes widen in alarm: the explosives went off sooner than planned. Using her fingertips and the tips of her boots, she scrambles from one jagged layer to the next.

She shoots out of the tunnel entry with moments to spare. Dust and smoke billow out behind her as she sprints to the speeder, where K-2SO is waiting with his metal head on his fist. "Go," she pants, tumbling inside. The ship leaps into the air.

She falls to the bay floor and takes heaving breaths. "Coming up on the others," K-2SO calls to her. "By the way, you'll be happy to know your ongoing survival is raising your positive success percentage. You now have a fifty percent chance of surviving any future excursions."

"Thanks, K."

" _Base to Blue Condor. Uh… Lady Krennic,_ " says Wedge in her ear.

"What!" Jyn snaps.

" _You're never going to believe this._ "

The beauty of the nebula clouds strewn through the surrounding galaxy goes unheeded as the tinny voice in her earpiece continues. Jyn listens, her expression shifting slowly from irritation to bewilderment. "He's _where?_ "

0 0 0

The catacombs are ruins, which makes them difficult to navigate but easy to sneak into, especially when led by two Guardians who once made their home nearby. Chirrut and Baze lead their team through the the rocky maze, with the addition of Mon Mothma, who elected to join them upon their return to Yavin 4.

Eventually the contingent finds its way to the main operative spaces. The corridor deposits them at the entrance of a gathering area. Everyone's hands automatically move to rest on their blasters.

There are parts of Saw Gerrera's hideout that are admittedly impressive. This large gathering room is one of them, where a huge lattice-patterned window looks out over the surrounding canyon. Its contents are less impressive: the space is crowded with shouting guerrillas, whose eyes shine red with bloodlust. The air is thick with the stink of unwashed bodies.

The first thing Jyn sees is his uniform, unforgivably white amongst the dirt.

Krennic is chained up in front of the window. His arms are held above his head by a chain rooted in the rock ceiling. They have already stripped him of his cape. Looking closer, she can see that his white uniform is stained brown with blood, presumably from the deep gashes on his cheek and forehead, which shine liquid red.

As she watches, the massive metal form of Saw Gererra moves in front of the captive and blocks her view of him. Saw's robotic arm rears back and strikes; the impact of metal against flesh can be heard all the way across the room.

Saw wheezes, "You will answer, cockroach. You will."

One of the guerrillas notices the newcomers. "Ach, the killjoys are here."

Heads turn their way. They are greeted with groans, scowls, and shouts to stay on their own turf. The attention of the room shifts from the figure at the front to those in the back.

At the commotion, Krennic's eyes roam the room and land on her; stop. His head lifts. Jyn turns her attention to Saw, who is clanking toward them.

The guerrilla leader addresses Mon Mothma. "Why have you come?"

"You've caught a high-ranking Imperial figure. We're here to question him."

"Ah, just—" A man with fighter goggles strapped to his head pushes through the crowd. Jyn recognizes him as the hologram head of the pilot who helped her escape from Eadu. Bodhi. "Just, a correction there, no, they didn't _catch_ him. He was _brought_ to them. Courtesy of Galen Erso. Credit where it's due." He tells the Alliance group, "I'm very glad you're here. These guys are," he whispers, " _psychopaths_."

"My old adversaries," says Saw, beholding Chirrut and Baze.

"That was your choice," says Baze, not blinking. Though his posture is at ease, weapons have found their way into both his hands. Chirrut, beside him, grips his staff; he appears to be listening for something specific.

Saw waves a dismissive hand and begins to walk away. "We will question our prisoner and you will leave."

Mon Mothma's voice is clear and it carries. "And I am here to say it will not be so."

The guerrillas hiss their disapproval. Saw pauses to looks over his shoulder at the senator.

She says, "I propose we use rational thought to approach the situation, rather than blind animosity."

"I don't apologize for my methods. This is what it takes to win this fight. This is for you as much as anyone. This is for all of us."

She counters, "Who are we if we lose our justice?"

"Justice! You think the cockroach knows the meaning of that word?"

"No, but we do. _We_ do, Saw."

Jyn watches his eyes. He is mostly metal, but there is still a human soul in that body, and there is still a thread of humanity in that soul. For a moment he looks as though he has forgotten where he is and has been transported by his memories to some distant unreachable place. He frowns at Mon Mothma, and Jyn longs to know what thoughts are flying around in his unstable, war-torn mind, but what ultimately matters is that he acquiesces.

"Prepare the trial."

-

They list Krennic's crimes, one after another after another. All the death, devastation, and corruption they know of, and it still probably doesn't cover half of what he has truly done. If the prisoner is listening he doesn't show it. He stands, hands in manacles above his drooping head, face hidden from his audience.

Mon Mothma says, "How does the accused plead?"

He does not stir. Saw, standing beside him, kicks him in the leg. His body reacts to the pain, but still he does not speak. But the laws of the court, his silence does not indicate disagreement, and they move on.

"This assembly will now vote to determine whether this man, Orson Krennic, will be shown mercy or justice. All in favor of mercy, say aye."

No one speaks.

"All in favor of justice, say aye."

The room roars its unanimous approval.

"We will now determine who shall execute this man, Orson Krennic, who stands before you condemned to death for his crimes against the inhabitants of this galaxy."

One of the guerrillas shouts, "I claim him!"

Another shouts, " _I_ claim him!"

"He killed my wife and children!"

"He destroyed my homeland!

K-2SO says, "He belongs to Jyn."

The room stops and looks at the droid. Even Krennic's head lifts.

"Technically he belongs to the pilot," says one of Saw's men.

Bodhi says, "No thank you."

"Haven't any of you read the Galactic Rules of Engagement?" K-2SO tches. "Chapter 10, Section 17-4-b: If a prisoner of war is apprehended and kept at a place of containment, access shall be permitted by any individual considered a spouse of said prisoner, as defined in Section 17-1-1. Chapter 10, Section 17-5-c: If there is no question of guilt by jury and a declaration of death is set over the prisoner of war, the wishes of the spouse of the guilty party are to be prioritized regarding the manner of death, if said spouse is considered of sane and just mind, as determined in Section 17-5-d. If upholding the spouse's wishes is not feasible, a second alternative shall be presented by said spouse. If a second alternative is not presented, or said spouse declines to present their wishes in any manner, including absence, the trial jury shall choose the method of execution. The date of execution shall be—"

Cassian says, "Thank you, K."

Krennic says, "Hold on, it was getting good," which earns him a subduing blow to the side of the head.

"We don't have to obey that Empire rubbish," growls a guerrilla.

"The Empire didn't write the Rules and doesn't follow them," says Mon Mothma. "It is an ancient text by which the Alliance has always abided."

"Well, we isn't Alliance." This garners cheers from the zealots in the room.

"Jyn Erso?" says Saw. "Galen Erso's child, who carries reports of a planet-killer. Come here, Jyn Erso."

The crowd parts; they don't dare defy Saw. Jyn walks slowly to the front of the room.

Saw's respirator pumps air as though it is gasping for oxygen itself. He rasps, "Galen Erso sent the cockroach to us and we recognize both his ownership and your kinship. We will split the claim with you. Ours the mind, yours the body. Agreed?"

Jyn thinks fast. She doesn't know what Saw means most of the time, and this time is one of those times, and there isn't a shred of her that wants to claim even a single eyelash of the man dripping blood all over the floor to her left, but she has to keep the Alliance in the game, so she says: "So I get to execute him, yeah?"

Saw shouts "Agreed!" and the room roars approval.

The irony is not lost on Jyn that she is claiming ownership, even if half, of the man she has labored to distance herself from. She looks at him. His expression is exactly what she expected: smug and sardonic despite the blood gushing down his face. Anger surges through her: this isn't a victory for _him_.

He says, "What are you going to do with me? Carve up my heart and eat it? That's what I would do."

She gives a cry of rage and reaches for his neck, and he's startled enough to step backwards, but her target isn't his flesh. She swipes and comes away with her kyber pendant swinging in her grip.

"I need that," he says.

"Well, you're just going to have to think of an alternative, aren't you?" She ties it around her neck. "Thief."

The next moment, guerrillas surround him. They unhook his manacles from the ceiling chain while chanting something that sounds like gargling.

"What are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

They leer at her. "Little miss gets to decide how he dies. Until then, he's ours. To Bor Gullet!"

"Say goodbye while you can still speak the words! Turn your brain to mush Bor Gullet will. Fry it like a fritter!"

"Be babbling like a loon soon! Hoo, made meself rhyme!"

Jyn shouts over the clamor, "He will die intact! Physically _and_ mentally!"

They don't stop, but they look back to glare at her.

Mon Mothma lays a light hand on her arm. "Jyn. We need the proof of this planet-killer. We need to access his knowledge of the weapon. Otherwise Saw's forces won't join ours."

"What do you mean? You know what they're planning?"

"Bor Gullet is a… mindreader."

Jyn look at Saw. He says, "No one can withstand Bor Gullet. Bor Gullet will know the truth. The unfortunate side-effect is that one tends to lose one's mind."

Her mouth drops open. "We need this, Jyn," Mon Mothma reminds her.

"Right," she manages, and turns to follow the crowd.

The guerrillas strap him to the rusting bars of a cage deeper within the catacombs. They chant the name _Bor Gullet_. Jyn tries not to breathe deeply; the stink of unwashed bodies is stronger here, along with something acrid that's source seems to be the cage.

A tentacle reaches out of the darkness. Jyn leaps back, startled and revolted. A massive, smooth-skinned creature appears. It doesn't appear to have a face, just spots that might be eyes. And arms. Many arms.

Saw tells the prisoner, "Bor Gullet can feel your thoughts. No lie is safe. Resistance is futile. You will only destroy your mind more quickly."

Krennic scoffs. "You think your threats are any match to Lord Vader's?" He narrows his eyes at the creature. "I've seen worse."

The suction cups affix to Krennic's blood-slick head. The rebels cheer. Saw begins asking questions, and Krennic clenches his teeth as though in agony.

Jyn has never had a stomach for torture. She lasts six minutes before she cannot bear to watch any more.

-

Chirrut sits beside her. They lean against one of the columns near the cage, though facing the other way. Jyn holds the kyber pendant, automatically rubbing circles over it with her thumb, her eyebrows locked in a frown. She can hear groans from time to time, and reactions from the crowd that vary so much as to be impossible to interpret, but she cannot see anything.

Chirrut says, "Would you trade that necklace for a glimpse of your future?" She gives him an affectionate nudge with her elbow.

"Missing your old home? We're so near, you ought to visit."

He shrugs. "Perhaps."

She calls to Cassian, who is standing near the back of the crowd. He looks over at her. She says: "Will it—Is it almost over?"

"Nowhere near. He isn't talking. Not a single word. Or giving an inch to whatever the creature is doing to him."

She hails one of the more sensible-looking guerrillas. "How long does a torture session typically last before your man there gives it up as a lost cause?"

He shakes his head. "Hard to say. He's never failed before. And he's very patient."

-

Hours in, most of the guerrillas are seated on the floor, too, though their noise doesn't abate. They taunt and jeer at the prisoner, cheer for Bor Gullet, and start arguments with each other over the probable outcome.

Chirrut nudges Jyn, who is dozing on his shoulder. "Something has changed."

She is wide awake in an instant. "What is it?"

"Saw. His energy just flared red."

Jyn scrambles to her feet. Above the crowd, she can see Saw's head and shoulders. His face is twisted in fury. She doesn't know what the guerrillas consider patient, but Saw has clearly passed that point.

"Piece of filth, I will make you talk. I will make you wish you had never been born." At these words, the crowd rouses. Their leader shouts, "String him up!"

They cheer and rush to obey. Krennic is dragged out of the cell and tied up again on the other side of the bars, arms and legs spreadeagled with his head held in place by a rope at his neck.

Saw shows the prisoner a set of sharp, dirty tools. "I will break all of your bones. I will cut off your nose and cut off your ears. I will rip out your fingernails and cut off your fingers and cut off your hands and cut off your arms. I will rip out your toenails and cut off your toes and cut off your feet and cut off your legs. Not in that order, though. I will gouge out your eyes so that you do not know what part I will take next. "

Jyn's stomach turns. She has been a forced witness to this particular method of torture before—twice. Nightmares still wake her up crying, covered in sweat with heart pounding. Both times the victims had objectively deserved their fate—they had committed unspeakable crimes—but more than the grotesqueness of the acts, what had stayed with Jyn was the satisfaction with which the torturers and observers had proceeded. As though they were glad for the opportunity to perform such deeds. And they had claimed to be cleansing the galaxy of filth.

Saw tell his men, "Open his mouth." He pushes a set of pliers inside and struggles a moment before he yanks out a molar.

Jyn cannot hear Krennic's cry of pain over the roaring approval of the guerrillas. He appears to be choking—wIth the angle his head is at, he cannot spit out the blood and must swallow it.

Saw raises a huge metal fist and brings it down hard on one of Krennic's forearms. Jyn can hear the snap of bones all the way across the room. The room roars again.

Saw says, "Take off his boots." They pull out most of his toenails and break one of his feet before the torturer asks the prisoner, "Are you going to talk?"

Krennic spits blood in his face.

Saw draws an arm back and swings it at Krennic's head with so much force a dent is left in the cage bars. The prisoner's head lolls to the side.

Jyn doesn't realize she is gripping Cassian's arm until he flexes it to loosen her vise hold. He is staring at her. "What has gotten into you?"

She says, "He's _mine_ to kill." She leaves him shaking his head as she goes to find the one person who might have any influence over Saw.

Mon Mothma is standing by the lattice window. Her eyes are distant; Jyn cannot tell if she is looking at something further down the canyon or if her thoughts are somewhere else altogether, and she doesn't care. She marches up to the Senator. " _They're killing him._ "

Mon Mothma looks at her with some surprise—not at the methods of the guerrillas, but at Jyn's show of concern.

Jyn collects herself. She says, low, "This isn't who we are. No matter what he's done to us, we don't stoop to the Empire's level. You said so yourself."

"You don't usually take the noble high road."

"He can't die yet. Not until we have the blueprints. He might prove useful."

Mon Mothma's gaze is steady. Jyn forces herself to meet it, despite the sense that it is stripping her mind bare and leaving the most vulnerable parts exposed.

The senator doesn't say another word. She moves past Jyn, striding toward the torture room. Her voice carries over the heads of the rebels. "Saw Gerrera! That man is not yours to kill!"

"We must have his mind," says Saw, eyes crazed.

Mon Mothma steps into the crowd. It parts automatically. Jyn follows.

"There are better ways to get your answers!"

"This is the only way we can be sure!"

Jyn looks at Krennic. He is a swollen mess of blood and bruises; his face looks almost inhuman. The only emotion she can decipher is exhaustion. His whole body sags against his bonds. There isn't a flicker of response in his eyes at the sight of her, but they follow her.

 _Tell them,_ she thinks. _If he kills you I will have to stay and watch. Don't make me have to see this. Don't make me have to remember this._

The zealot and the senator are still arguing. A guerrilla with crab claws for hands says, "What about her?" He leans into Jyn's space.

She pushes him away. "Get off me." A claw locks around her wrist..

"She's his wife, ain't she? What does she know? Mebbe we oughter pick her brain."

"Everything I know I've already told you, you fool."

"Yeah, and mayhaps you're lying. Maybe that's why he ain't talking—cos there ain't nothing to tell."

Saw says, "The point is well made." He ruminates. "I would not do such a thing to Galen Erso's child if I could avoid it. But the doubts are too many and the risks too great. We must know. Summon Bor Gullet once more."

Behind her, Cassian and Baze, who followed the women to the front of the crowd, cry out in angry protest. Mon Mothma's ever-neutral demeanor gives way to a frown and sharp words of rebuke.

"Put her in the cage," Saw commands.

"Saw, you cannot do this!"

Saw's entire gang draws on the four rebels. Slowly, unwillingly, the Alliance rebels raise their arms. Cassian tries to block the guerrillas' access to Jyn by standing in front of her, which he cannot really hope will work but it's like him to at least try.

Mon Mothma stands straight and tall, still a steady voice of reason amongst the chaos. Only someone who knows her voice well could hear it waver at the edges. "You think that thing will give you answers? How well did it do its work on its last victim?"

Saw holds up a hand. The guerrillas stop, eyes fixed on him. "Another point well made. If Bor Gullet couldn't break the cockroach, it won't break Lyra's daughter." He nods. "Fetch a second set of tools."

Baze roars furiously and draws weapons in both hands; K-2SO and Chirrut have joined them and they mirror him. Jyn holds on to Cassian, who clutches her to him even as five others try to tear her away.

"Coward," croaks Krennic. Somehow it cuts through the noise in the room. Heads swivel his way.

Saw charges at him, eyes bright and menacing. "No man calls me that and sees another sunrise." He punches the prisoner in both ribs.

"Coward," Krennic repeats, fighting for breath. "You're so afraid—of the Empire that you'd—rather torture your own people than—accept the fact that it can destroy you."

Saw backhands him across the face. "I fear no Empire, cockroach filth."

"If the galaxies could—see you now they would know for you the tyrant you truly are and thank—the stars you are in no position of authority over any of them."

He continues in this way, goading Saw between blows, as the white of his uniform turns a dark wet red. They pull out small sticks holding wisps of crackling lightning and hold it to his skin. They burn his skin and break his bones and draw so much blood that he must soon drain dry.

Jyn is forgotten. She is curled against Cassian, frozen in horror, unable to look away.

Saw says, "Take his eyes. Left one first."

It is finally beginning.

"Any last words, cockroach, before all you can do is scream?"

Wheezing breaths. Every time he coughs, blood bubbles on his lips. The ropes are the only things holding him up.

His eyes graze over her face on their way to meet Saw's. He gives the guerrilla leader a long, bleary look. Then he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the bars.

"It's true. All of it is true."

Mon Mothma's lips part. She glances at Jyn.

Krennic's voice is labored. "Of course—we've made—a planet-killer. The Death Star. Laser. Kyber power. It will—wipe your foul—existence from this galaxy—with one shot. Get your monster. Ask away—and—be satisfied—knowing how soon—you're going to die."

Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps forward.

They try to revive him for a while, but the shock of pain and blood loss have rendered him deeply unconscious. "Dump him in a cell," says Saw. "I don't care which one." They loose his bonds, careless of whether their knives slice skin as well as rope. He is hauled up by the armpits by two guerrillas and dragged away.

They put him in a cell not far from the main gathering room. His white cape is tossed in after him.

"Full day's work, that was," says one of the guerrillas. "Suppertime, eh?"

Jyn stares at the heap of red for a while before she enters his cell. She is mentally kicking herself, but that doesn't stop her from pulling out her bacta kit.

He needs a bacta _tank_. Her tube of gel will only go so far. Cassian will have his, but Baze and Chirrut are are notorious for leaving theirs behind. She wonders how many are stashed on the ship.

She uses her knife to shred his cape. The thick cloth makes a poor gauze, but it's helpfully close at hand and it is still relatively clean, cleaner than anything else she's going to find in this place. She doesn't want to move him, but she cleans up any visible wounds and applies the bacta to the worst of them. She focuses on the blood; she doesn't want to know what questions and answers will rise if she gives herself time to think about what she is doing.

The prisoner stirs. He peers blearily up at her.

His voice is hoarse. "Don't worry. One of these days they'll bring me back dead."

Jyn breathes in slowly, makes sure her voice is steady. "I'm counting on it."

The cell door opens. Mon Mothma's fingers touch her shoulder lightly. She is with the sensible-looking guerrilla from before. Jyn starts at the sight of Saw outside the cell. His metal frame cannot fit through the cell doorway.

"Get something to eat," the senator tells Jyn. "We're going to ask him some questions. Nothing but questions," she says, answering a look Jyn wasn't aware is crossing her face. It feels uncomfortably like an answer to one of the questions Jyn won't ask herself.

Jyn gets to her feet and leaves the cell without a backward glance.

-

Bodhi, who is used to filling his belly with Imperial meals, has taken command of the kitchen since his arrival. "You think it's bad now," he tells Jyn. "Picture this, but grey. All grey."

She sits across from him at the long mess table. There are a few rowdy groups of guerrillas in the room but the two of them have this section to themselves. Her team is elsewhere, securing a safe corner of the catacombs in which to lay their heads for a few nights: recent developments being what they are, more rebel leaders are en route to Jedha. No one is leaving anytime soon.

She takes a deep drink of guerrilla-made gin and coughs violently. Once oxygen has returned to her lungs, she says, "You know my father."

"Yes. Galen's been my supervisor for, ah, going on five years now."

She pauses, wets her lips, wonders where to begin. "Will you tell me about him?"

Time disappears. Bodhi is wonderfully verbose and his memory is keen. With his words her father slowly comes back to life, his figure sharpening from a ghost to a thinking, acting being. She can hear the ring of his voice in repeated jokes, can see the flash of his eyes in tales of his temper roused, can see his gray eyes gentle in remembered kindness. Her eyes are filled with tears almost from the start, of laughter and pain, and the ache is bittersweet, to have not lost her father but still not have had him, to still not have him. Bodhi lets her glean everything she can, tries to remember the slightest of details, doesn't sweeten his stories for her sake but tells them undiluted and messy and true. They sit at the table until Jyn is falling asleep in her chair, and still she wants more.

Bodhi tells her Galen no longer on Eadu. He is imprisoned on a Star Destroyer. Where and which it is is anyone's guess. Jyn immediately starts planning a rescue mission, which is cut off only by the arrival of one sympathetic but resolute Captain Andor.

When she finally falls onto the thin mattress in the dark, dank quarters that Cassian leads her to, sure her mind is too full and busy to settle, she instantly falls into a dreamless sleep.

0 0 0

The Rebel Alliance leaders begin to show up a little after dawn. Senators and military leaders trickle in through the catacombs and make their way to the area where Saw and Mon Mothma will spend most of the day arguing over plans, alliances, and resources.

Cassian's crew, now joined by Merrick's, sits on a pyramid of storage crates and watches the stream of newcomers. "This will get us nowhere," says Baze. "Look at them. Their faces say it all. Not a word yet spoken and they are determined not to compromise."

"I'm sure the thought of a compromise with Saw is no easy thing to stomach," notes Merrick.

"If they want his help, what other choice is there?"

Cassian is adamant that their plan ought not change. The leaders will spend days arguing. The Death Star might be seconds away from readiness. The weakness hidden in the blueprints are the only real hope anyone has; they must break into the archives and soon.

The team is careful in their planning and their secrecy. No one suspects the topic of their huddled conversation; to anyone who asks, they play it off as another random sabotage plot. Scarif is no sleepy army outpost and their plan is complex out of necessity, leaving little room for error. They'll only get one shot. It is crucial to get it right.

By morning's end they have some answers and more questions. They break for luncheon. Jyn, whose appetite vanishes every time she gets a waft of one of the guerrillas, stays behind to clear an area for a makeshift training ring.

Cassian waits until the others are out of earshot before saying, "You want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?" She heaves a box of ammo.

"Come on, Jyn. After all these years, you're finally going to kill him. You'll be free of him. That's no small thing."

"You're right. It isn't. And I don't want to talk about it."

His eyes are patient. "If you change your mind."

She checks herself. This is Cassian's affection for her speaking; he means nothing but kindness. She sets down the crate but doesn't look at him. "I know where to find you. Thank you, Cas."

He nods to her and makes to follow the others, then pauses a few steps away. "If you want—I can make it painless."

"Thank you. I'll let you know." He hurries away and she presses a hand to her forehead.

She hails a passing guerrilla, one she knows was guarding Krennic's cell that morning. He tells her that as far as he knows, the prisoner has not moved all day.

"Has he managed to eat anything?"

He laughs as though she's told a joke. "What do you take us for, nursemaids? You want 'im to eat, you feed 'im, as 'e _belongs_ to you."

-

Jyn stands before the cell, plate in hand, and scowls at the guard. "You don't have slots in the cell door? How do you serve your prisoners their meals?"

"Who says we do?" he cackles.

"Fine. Let me in."

Krennic is sitting up. He has removed his bloodstained uniform jacket and now wears a sleeveless black shirt. His once white trousers are rust-colored. He is trying to rewrap one of the bandages on his upper arm.

He stares at the plate she holds out. "You ingest that voluntarily?"

"Beggars and choosers, Krennic. Mind which one you are."

He takes the plate from her, wincing as he raises his arm. "Have you settled how you're going to kill me? I think you ought to eject me into space and let me freeze over. An eternal drifting trophy for you."

"Still deciding. There are so many good options."

He lifts an eyebrow over a black eye. "I'd have thought you'd want me off your hands as quickly as possible."

"Nothing could please me more than the knowledge that you're suffering away in here where you can't do any harm. You can sit tight for a bit longer." She leaves.

-

Jyn, whose outlook on the rebel-guerrilla meetings has been only slightly more optimistic than the others', grows increasingly frustrated at the lack of progress. She sits in on some of the discussion—kvetching, more accurately—and returns to her team with steam practically coming out of her ears.

"They know about the Death Star. Krennic gave them all the proof they needed. How can they still be sitting in that room, shouting at each other?"

Cassian removes the stylus from his mouth and makes a mark on the holopad. Beside him, Merrick grunts quietly in agreement.

Cassian says, "You've lived and worked among them for years now, and you're surprised?"

She makes a noise of irritation and seats herself on the crate beside him. "They haven't even agreed to work together! Everyone wants to be in charge and no one has a viable plan."

"Except us. Well, we will. Do you fancy being inside or out?"

She looks at him in surprise. "Inside, of course."

He chuckles. "Of course."

-

"Poisoned, is it?" Krennic says, shoveling supper into his mouth.

"You'll know when it's time."

"Ah. I'll stop worrying then."

"Keep worrying," she says, and raps the bars so that the guard will open the door.

Behind her, he says: "Careful of the company you keep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your assassin. Lie with dogs, you'll get fleas."

There are hardly words for her to express to Krennic how much she hates him in that moment. And if she tries, it will only be to his satisfaction. She has seen him in action; he'll goad her until she's angry enough to give something away, some crucial clue about their plans or a way to puzzle out his escape. She tries to calm herself.

She looks at him over her shoulder. "Better than than the poison of a serpent."

His jaw tightens. "Yes, you've made your preference clear. Are you in love with him?" he says, almost conversationally.

She crosses her arms and studies him. "Love? Love is a luxury I can ill afford. You know better than anyone what happens to the people I love."

"There’s that tone again. When are you going to stop blaming me for the natural progression of events that occurs thanks to your actions? Take responsibility for the part you play."

" _Responsibility?_ Your actions are your own. Your choices are your own. I would never hurt people the way you have. I could never do the things you've done."

"Oh, aren't we noble," he scoffs. "The little smuggler from Lah'mu, who's never had to make a decision that would affect anyone else for better or worse."

"I married you, didn't I? That was for Lah'mu; that was for my entire social class."

"That was to humiliate me and piss me off," he corrects. "You think you couldn't do what I've done? I know people like you. Underneath all that pretense, you have just as much capacity for cruelty as anyone in the galaxy, if it gets you what you want."

"Wrong," she tells him. "This is who I am." She pulls out the bacta tubes she has collected and throws them at him. He looks up at her, face unreadable. She finds she has enough kindness to give them to him but not enough to help him. "Apply it yourself," she says, and leaves.

-

In the corridor leading to her sleeping quarters she encounters the guerrilla leader. The previous day still fresh in her mind, Saw is the last person she wants any sort of interaction with, but she has eaten his salt and so she nods to him and makes to pass by.

"You are much like your mother, Jyn Erso."

She stops.

"Lyra Erso had a fighter's spirit. But she, too, preferred mercy."

"I'm hardly merciful. The execution is simply yet to be scheduled."

"I," he wheezes, "have lost my mercy. The warrior's life strips it from the soul."

"That is unfortunate." She cannot help adding, "For all of us."

"You speak as though you think yourself immune to the effects of the path you walk on. The calluses I carry are many and they took time to accumulate and to harden. When the years of my life still stretched before me, I too found joy in simple pleasures: a sunrise over the moon; the taste of a well-cooked meal. Then I learned, as you will, that despair and pain far outweigh such fleeting things, and I knew I must act, and since then I have followed one path, and have not stopped. Tell me, Jyn Erso. If you continue to fight, what will you become?"

Jyn cannot tell if he is apologizing, or warning her, or exhorting her to follow in his footsteps. But his words are a strange discordant echo—to whose, she cannot say, her father's, Cassian's, Krennic's, her own heart—and she does not know how to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I remain [provisional governor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39DfJPAUp2M) no matter your number of guns.  
> -You can call yourself [provisional king of the world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5auyUSI6as4) for all I care.


End file.
